The Dream of a Madman
by Jinx2016
Summary: It's only a dream…or is it? Which life is real? The dream of the madman, who claims the impossible or the life John Watson has thought he's known his whole life? Warning: Rated T for Torture (Complete)
1. Chapter 1

**Just a little warning to all readers. There will be torture and mention of torture throughout this fic. I just wanted to try something new so bear with me. I have a good idea of where I may be going with this so it should be updated weekly unless something pops up. It may be a little confusing, but I'm working on fixing that. Thanks for reading. **

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_Chapter 1_

The doctor sat in the bus as he made his way to his new job. He wasn't looking forward to it, but he needed the money after being shot in the shoulder and leaving the military. Now he was on the road to who knows where. His sister had offered to let him stay with her, but he refused. He wouldn't be able to take it. She was a drunk and being a doctor would just ruin their relationship. He doesn't have anyone else in this world so why would he risk losing the one person who actually cared about him? It would be a stupid mistake to do so.

"Last stop," the bus driver called to him. The old doctor looked up from the frost covered window, staring at the now empty bus. Slowly shuffling to his feet and grabbing his cane, he hobbled out into the cool London air. He trotted down the cobblestone path to where he came to a large building with ivy plants crawling up the red bricks. He looked at an old faded sign on the building.

_Brook's Mental Asylum_

The doctor shivered at the idea of working with people who no longer had any idea of the real world. It made his heart break to see such turmoil and pain, but he needed the money. He knew that once he got enough, though he would run away from this horrible place.

Once through the big wooden door he was left wishing that he had risked staying with his lovely sister. Patients were sobbing in every direction. Their lost eyes were sunken into their heads and white gowns were all they were given. Doctors walked left and right, not even glancing at the patients that sobbed and cried for help. He shuddered. He was a caring man. How could he be expected to just walk past people like this?

"You're the new doctor right?" A young man with freckles speckling his nose and cheeks said merrily. The ex-army doctor nodded, trying to force a smile, but he couldn't. It seemed like too depressing a place to do such a thing as smile. It just felt wrong. "I'm Henry, welcome to the nut house." The old Doctor forced a chuckle and looked around.

"So, where do I start?" he asked. Henry's smile fell slightly.

"Well, that's some bad news," Henry started, "one of our doctors quit after being assigned to a specific patient. It sounds like you're the one who'll get to watch over him now," Henry stated, shaking his head in pity. "He's the worst we've got here."

"Where is he?" the doctor asked, fear bubbling up inside him. He didn't want to be here and he definitely didn't want to have to be the doctor of the worst patient they've ever had in the asylum. Henry led him up three flights of stairs, stepping over patients that rolled against the floor, muttering nonsense.

"LET ME GO!" a man shouted from a room to the doctor's left. The man had greying hair and wild eyes.

"Calm down, Gregory," a female doctor called, holding the man down as a nurse injected a clear substance into the man's arm.

"That's Mr. Lestrade, poor man keeps acting like he's the bloody police," Henry stated, noticing the doctor staring at the poor man, who now lied motionless on the floor. "Come on, you're madman is waiting." The doctor took one more glance at the man called Gregory, who lied flat on the tiled flooring. He couldn't help to wonder if he had seen him before. The madman looked so familiar. He brushed it off, guessing it was just a coincidence and fallowed Henry down to the slowly darkening hallway. He came to a door that was made of iron and had at least thirty different locks on it along with dents coming from within the inside. So far it wasn't looking good for the doctor. Henry pulled out a large key that looked like it hadn't been used in years. If they didn't bother change this key in for an electric lock then they really must not want to be anywhere nears this man. The old army doctor swallowed hard as the door creaked open, revealing a poorly lit room. The room was completely empty except for an unused bed. The bed was completely untouched, like it hasn't been used in years. There was one small window that let in a few rays of lovely sunshine and by this window was a chair. The chair wasn't what made the doctor's skin crawl though. It was the man in the chair. The man was tall, pail, and way too thin. His dark curly hair was sticking up all over from a hand running through it so many times. The new doctor walked into the room, noticing how Henry refused to come any farther into the room. The doctor couldn't help but wonder why the other doctor had left. The madman who was staring at out the tiny window turned his gaze to the doctor. A gasp left the doctors mouth. The man's eyes were a steely blue that froze you where you stood. They were bright and amazing, but there was something missing from them. Emotion was nowhere to be seen in them. They were blanker than a plain piece of paper. The eyes studied over him and then looked back into his.

"You're my new doctor," the man stated. The doctor nodded, giving out his hand to the madman. He ignored Henry, who was flinching in the corner. Maybe if doctors were a tad kinder to their patients here they wouldn't have problems. The madman stared at the hand for a while and then took it. "My name's John Watson," the doctor stated, letting a smile fall over his face. The madman's eyes widened for a second in what may have been relief or joy and then took control again, forcing the emotions away.

"The name is Sherlock Holmes," the madman stated, shaking John's hand in his.


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter 2_

John sat next to Sherlock Holmes, staring at the man for any signs that could help him care for the new patient.

"Have you taken your medication today, Sherlock?" Henry asked. Sherlock nodded, but John knew that he was lying. John didn't know how to explain it. He just could tell. He just knew. John shook himself and glanced in Henry's direction. Henry was swaying cautiously by the doorway as if Sherlock may try to bolt. John understood that Henry was just looking out, but it was making John nervous and the last thing you want your patient to see is that you are afraid of them. That definitely doesn't help them recover at all.

"Henry, can you wait outside for a second?" John asked kindly. Henry stiffened and his eyes trailed to the patient sitting with his head against the small window. His eyes shimmered from the nervous gaze to a dark and eerie glare that made John want to shiver.

"Alright, I'll be outside the door if you need me," Henry stated, before closing the iron door and locking it behind him. John let out a sigh. Well, it doesn't look like he can run if Sherlock goes crazy or something. He's stuck to deal with it on his own.

"Thank god, I thought he was just going to sit there like an idiot all day," Sherlock sighed, glancing at the closed door. John smiled slightly.

"So, tell me about yourself, Sherlock," John stated, guessing that maybe he should see what he has to deal with. Sherlock shrugged and turned his icy eyes onto the doctor.

"Why should I? You won't believe me anyway," Sherlock stated. John nodded in agreement. So Sherlock knew that trust wasn't a common thing here; interesting. John tapped at his cane, staring at the clever patient.

"How long have you been here?"

"Not a good question," Sherlock stated.

"What? Why not?" John asked, his mouth falling into a frown. Sherlock sighed dramatically and pointed at himself.

"According to the doctors here I've been here for years, but I believe I've been here for only a couple days," Sherlock stated. John frowned at him further, leaning forward.

"Why do you think that?" John asked. Sherlock frowned at him and then jumped out of his chair, startling the doctor.

"Oh, no you don't! You're trying to break me like the rest of them!" Sherlock screamed. John stayed seated, remaining as calm as possible.

"No, Sherlock, I just want to help you."

"Why?" John paused for a second, choosing his answer carefully.

"Because we-'re…friends," John slurred as the words popped into his head. Sherlock smirked.

"I don't have friends." John stared at Sherlock as he said that. That line seamed so familiar. John shook himself again.

"Well, now you do," John stated. "Friends protect people and that's what I plan to do for you." Sherlock stared at John. The blazing starlight blue of his eyes dimmed, making them almost look sad. John was puzzled. Had he said something to hurt the detective? John chewed at his lip. Maybe Sherlock never had the chance at friends yet.

"I believe that because when I look at the charts the doctors bring into my room only around ten days are filled out. If I was here for years wouldn't more be filled out?" Sherlock stated, sitting back into his chair. John thought for a second and then nodded in agreement.

"Yes, I admit that that does sound accurate. If you want I could look into it for you," John stated. Sherlock stared again at him for a long while before asking,

"You're not going to report that I've lost it?" John shook his head. Sherlock's body un-tensed and his eyes looked around the white room. John looked around with him. The light flickered on and off again. There was nothing in there that could have suggested a previous life.

"So are you going to answer my question?" John asked, gaining Sherlock's attention.

"What question?" John rolled his eyes to tease the man.

"Are you going to tell me about yourself?" John asked again. Sherlock looked hesitant for a few seconds, but when John patted his hand reassuringly he opened up.

"I was a consulting detective. I worked with several people and my flat mate. I investigated murders and robberies…pretty much anything exciting," Sherlock sighed, smiling at the memories. John stared at Sherlock's eyes, noting that the man was _not_ lying.

"So, what happened then? " John asked. Sherlock frowned at him.

"How do you mean? I just woke up and found myself being told by idiot doctors that I was mad and that my life was all a fake," Sherlock spat. John held his breath, absorbing Sherlock's story.

"What do you remember happening before you woke up here?" John asked. Sherlock went silent, fiddling with his long fingers.

"I was on a case with my flat mate. That's all I remember," Sherlock sighed, lowering his head and letting the black curls fall into his eyes. "Well…that and the pain." Sherlock suddenly shivered, gripping at his stomach area. John frowned, stepping closer to Sherlock.

"What kind of pain?" John asked, reaching out at the white hospital shirt Sherlock wore. Sherlock flinched as the doctor's hand came closer, but John looked him in the eyes, hoping that maybe he could see that he meant no harm. Sherlock must have understood because he relaxed and watched as John lifted the white shirt, revealing faint burn marks. John sucked in a shaky breath and stared at Sherlock. John opened his mouth to speak, but Henry opened the door.

"Sorry to interrupt, but the boss just called. He wants to meet you, Dr. Watson," Henry stated. John patted Sherlock's shoulder gently and whispered in a hushed voice so henry wouldn't overhear,

"I believe you." Sherlock's body shook slightly at the words and John couldn't help, but to smile. He wondered how long it has been since he heard the B-word.

John turned, fallowing Henry out of the room, leaving Sherlock alone in the dull room. The madman stared at the locked door and whispered softly,

"Please remember me."

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**So what do you think so far? Is something a little off with the mental asylum? The answer to your question lies ahead so you'll have to wait and find out my devilish little plan for poor Dr. John Watson and patient Sherlock Holmes. **


	3. Chapter 3

_CHAPTER 3_

John slowly opened the door to the main office to find himself standing in the grandest room of the entire Asylum. The walls were a bright vibrant color of green and the large windows were outlined in silk curtains. Books were stacked all over the place and pictures and chunks of newspapers plastered the wall on the far right. John walked over to the wall, his eyes catching onto the image of a young man with dark hair and eyes. Under his white lab coat was a Westwood suit, completed with a skull tie. John's eyes wavered down to the inscription underneath.

_In memory of Richard Brook_.

John felt his heart twist as he read the name. Why did it sound so familiar? Had he trained with him in medical school before? Had he been in Afghanistan? His eyes skimmed over the newspaper clippings, widening.

"Doctor Richard Brook was one of my greatest Doctors." John turned around as a voice from behind frightened him. A man with grey hair and square glasses was staring at him with a sad smile. On his white lab coat was a name tag, identifying him as John's boss Mr. Darcie.

"What happened to him?" John asked, still surprised by the man's entrance. The corners of the man's mouth curved up slightly as if he wanted to smile, but he held it back.

"His patient Sherlock Holmes accused him of being some criminal called Moriarty and shot him in the head," the man stated, shaking his head sadly. John looked back at the photo, confusion written over his paling face.

"Henry told me Sherlock's last doctor quit," John stated. The man shook his head again.

"We only tell that to new clients so not to scare them off. Finding good doctors is so hard these days." John bit at his lip as the news hit his ears. He didn't know why, but for some reason he just couldn't process the idea of Sherlock Holmes murdering this man. It just didn't feel right like the rest of this place. "Dr. Watson?" John snapped out of his mental babble and turned his attention back to his boss.

"Yes, Sir?" John's boss strolled back over to his desk and flipped through a few files labeled with Sherlock's name.

"I need you to be very careful while working with Mr. Holmes. He's a dangerous man and is strong with his beliefs. He will try everything possible to corrupt your mind into believing him," the man stated. John nodded, staring at the files.

"Yes, Sir, I'll be careful. Can you tell me how long Mr. Holmes has been here?" John asked. A smile tugged at the corners of the man's lips once again.

"Seven years." John glanced down at the papers as the man skimmed through them. His eyes falling on the days marked of Sherlock's care. "Well, I suppose you should head down to the lunch room. Sherlock should be down there waiting for you," Mr. Darcie stated, shutting the file before John could look any longer. John smiled at him warmly, getting up from his chair. He bid a good afternoon to his new boss and walked out of the office.

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John glanced back at the office before turning the corner.

"Seven years or seven days?" John stated, the image of notes on Sherlock's files rolling through his mind. He was right. Something was madly wrong around here and Sherlock Holmes, detective or not was the only person here that may be able to help him find out what.


	4. Chapter 4

_Chapter 4_

John found the lunch room fairly easily. He just had to follow his nose to a large room with baby blue walls and tables filled with patients and Doctors. John quickly got his food from the servers and strolled over to the table sitting closest to a bright and beautiful window that Sherlock Holmes had seated himself at. The detective wasn't eating his food, though he was just simply staring out the window, looking down the cobblestone walkway.

"Afternoon," John stated, sitting opposite of his patient.

"He told you, didn't he?" Sherlock stated, turning his gaze from the window to John. John stared at him wide eyed.

"How did you-"

"The same way I know you are a military doctor from Afghanistan and have problems with your brother because of his drinking," Sherlock informed him. John stared at Sherlock wide eyed.

"How could you possibly know all of that?" John gasped. Sherlock smiled at him, pleased for being correct.

"The way you hold yourself and your haircut say military. There are tan lines above your wrists and neck. Your limp is really bad, but not once have you asked for a chair so it is psychosomatic, meaning the happening was traumatizing for you. The only place you can get that type of tan, haircut, and shot in action is Iraq or Afghanistan now days. Now, your brother is a drunk, which I can tell by the scratch marks on your phone, which is sticking out from your pocket at the moment. You are desperate for money (other whys you wouldn't be here) so there is no way you would waste money on something like that. So it was given to you. The engraving on the phone (Harry Watson) says the rest. You have the same last name and it's very unlikely that you have extended family if you are desperate enough to come looking for a job here so then it's a brother. Now you must not be close if you haven't gone to him seeking for help. The scratches on the phone tell me that at night he goes to plug it in with shaking fingers after drinking too much so naturally you dislike him for the drinking," Sherlock stated faster than any deduction John had ever heard. He wanted to applaud the man for his brilliance.

"That was…amazing!" John shouted. Sherlock smiled at him.

"Did I get anything wrong?" Sherlock asked, poking at his food.

"Harry's my sister. Harry is short for Harriet," John informed him. Sherlock frowned, pouting slightly.

"It's always something," Sherlock grumbled. John paused, letting the words scramble around his head. Hadn't he heard them before? They sounded so familiar. Shaking his head he brought himself to the present once again and smirked kindly at the dark haired man in front of him.

"How did you know it was Afghanistan and not Iraq? John asked. Sherlock looked at him for a moment; his eyes scanning over John quickly, but he then turned away. John sighed, guessing that not every magic trick can be told and repeated his question on how Sherlock knew what Mr. Darcie had told him.

"I simply observed," Sherlock stated, answering the question. "You look at me differently than before. The question is do you believe me or him?" John smiled at Sherlock, taking a sip of his tea.

"I think you know who I choose, Detective," John stated smugly. Sherlock smiled at him, nodding his thanks to the good doctor. John smiled back, taking another sip of his tea.

"You called me a detective," Sherlock stated, staring at John. John smiled at him.

"Of course, that is your correct title after all."

"Sherlock." Both John and Sherlock looked up to be greeted by the man who John had seen drugged earlier.

"Lestrade," Sherlock stated, moving over so the man could sit. Lestrade looked at John for a moment with slit eyes. "It's fine. _Doctor Watson_ believes us," Sherlock informed Lestrade, stressing out John's name. John chose to ignore this little detail. Lestrade's eyes widened slightly and he sat down next to Sherlock.

"Oh, here," Lestrade said, handing Sherlock a piece of paper. Sherlock took it scanning over the sloppy handwriting. Sherlock sighed deeply and shredded the paper instantly.

"What was that?" John asked, watching as Sherlock tossed the pieces of paper onto the clean floors.

"There's this girl whose room is next to where they take the patients to…well, you know," Lestrade started, shivering slightly, rubbing at a mark on his arm. John paled, covering his mouth with his hand to keep back a gasp.

"So they…oh god," John slurred through his hand.

"Yep," stated Lestrade, bobbing his head up and down. "They shock ya and everything in this place. Ya' should have seen poor Sherlock when he first came here. I'm surprised they didn't kill him after-"

"Anyway," Sherlock interrupted, glaring at Lestrade.

"Sorry," Lestrade whispered turning back to poke at his food.

"Her name is Molly. The walls of her room aren't insulated so she can hear everything they say in there and that's the one place the doctors all speak freely. Out here they speak about caring for patients and all that nonsense, but in there they discuss the truth," Sherlock informed John.

"She's your spy," John stated.

"Exactly," Sherlock stated, glancing around the room cautiously. "She said that they were talking about _him_ again." Sherlock stated in almost a whisper. Lestrade almost dropped his fork as he lifted it to his mouth.

"What for?" Lestrade asked, frowning at Sherlock. "He's dead; long dead!"

"Fingers on lips!" Sherlock shouted at Lestrade, lifting a finger to shush the man. Lestrade glanced around, covering his mouth.

"Sorry…but it is true," Lestrade said through his hand. John frowned at them, piecing everything together.

"You mean, Richard Brook-"

"Don't say that name!" Sherlock snapped. John froze, not understanding. "He was known as Moriarty and always will be." John frowned at him.

"He's dead, though. You…" John trailed off, realizing that maybe that was also a lie that his boss had given to him.

"Don't worry about it, John. Mr. Darcie may be your good for nothing boss who takes pleasure in messing with innocent minds and constantly lies through his teeth, but when it comes to Moriarty…well, all the facts are against me in this case, so it would be no wonder why you would believe that old story." John frowned.

"So you did shoot him?" John asked. Sherlock shook his head.

"No, but there are enough facts and information to pin it on me. Moriarty was a clever man. He made sure that when he committed suicide I went down with him," Sherlock stated.

"Suicide?! How…why…why would he want to frame you?" John asked, bewildered by all of this. Sherlock's head fell against his hand and his eyes scanned out the window.

"I don't remember," Sherlock stated, not taking his eyes off the window.

"How do you mean?" John asked. Sherlock remained silent so Lestrade answered swiftly.

"The past lives of the patients in this madhouse are unknown. All we know are small pieces and feelings. All else is forgotten; hidden deep in our minds. I remember a life as a DI and sweet Molly remembers working in a morgue in London. Sherlock here remembers the most, though." Lestrade stated. John's eyes fell back down on Sherlock, who was watching a black bird as it cawed by the gates. John wondered how much Sherlock really remembered. He had a feeling that it was more than what he has shared, but that may be because of this place. The truth may not be the safest thing in such a horrible place as this.

"Dr. Watson?" John looked over to see Henry approaching. Lestrade and Sherlock both tensed instantly.

"Yes?" John replied, setting his cup down.

"Come with me, we're having a meeting and all staff are advised." Henry stated. John glanced at Sherlock, but the detective only picked at his uneaten food.

"Umm, yes, I'll be right with you," John stated. Henry nodded, walking out of the lunch room.

"Get as much information as you can gather," Lestrade stated, taking a spoonful of his food. "The more we know the closer we are at escaping." John nodded, glancing over at Sherlock once more. The detective still refused to look away from the window. With a sigh John got up from the table and began walking away when Sherlock's voice shouted,

"Be careful." John glanced over at the detective and smiled warmly at him before disappearing through the doors.

"Are you certain that's him?" Lestrade asked once he was sure John was surly gone.

"Yes, of course," Sherlock stated, turning his attention back to the bird sitting on the gate.

"He doesn't _remember_ you, though, Sherlock. Who knows, he might be like me; an _allusion_ of your maddened mind."

"He's not like you, Lestrade, he saw you! No one else can see you other than me, Mr. Darcie, the doctors, and Molly," Sherlock hissed. "He is the John Watson I've worked with for years and I'm certain of it!' Sherlock shouted, pounding his fist against the table. Lestrade held up his hands.

"Whatever you say, Mate, but you better try to get him to remember you before it's too late. The only way for you two to get out of here is if you get him to believe," Lestrade stated. Sherlock turned his head to look at the DI, but he only found himself sitting at an empty table, talking to himself. He glanced around, noticing that everyone in the lunch room had left and that the sun was now falling behind the trees of the woods surrounding the Asylum. Sherlock held his head in his hands, shivering in the cool room.

"I'm not mad…I'm not crazy…this is all fake. My dreams are real. John is real," Sherlock repeated to himself over and over again. He had to keep remembering. He could never let himself forget. For if he does both he and John shall be lost forever in this putrid place.


	5. Chapter 5

_Chapter 5_

Lestrade had been right about the little torture room. There were all kinds of horrible instruments, waiting to be used. A dim florescent light flickered in the room, casting eerie shadows around the room. There were four Doctors in the room and their boss Mr. Darcie, who was clutching Sherlock's file in his hands. They all looked very professional and normal, but John could see something in their eyes; something evil.

"Thank you all for coming today," Mr. Darcie began. The Doctors all turned to him, halting their conversations to listen. "We are here today to discuss our former partner Dr. Brook and his insane patient Sherlock Holmes." John flinched, afraid for his friend.

"What about? Dr. Watson has him in his care now," Henry stated, crossing his skinny arms. Mr. Darcie shook his head.

"Yes, but Mr. Holmes is clever. From what I have heard he is planning on an escape and we must be ready for him at all times." Soft murmuring began to echo through the room at the very mention of and escape. John shoved his hand in his coat pocket as he forced them in a fist. What was he to do now? Darcie held his hand up to silence them all again and continued speaking. "Now, I ask of all of you to keep your ears open and ready. We must stop him!" John put his hands in his coat pockets to hide his fists. Great, now he was wanted to spy on his friend. He would never do so of course, but he would have to give them some details in order to keep the other doctors' trust. "Are you all prepared to take this madman down?" Mr. Darcie asked.

"What will you do to him if you get your information?" John wished he hadn't asked, but he had to know what price his friend might pay for his actions. The room was dead silent and all the doctors had eerie smiles stretched on their faces.

"We will try to assist his poor mind," Mr. Darcie cooed, stepping aside from a table completely covered in buckles, straps, and wires. John's heart fell to his stomach, but he kept his reaction hidden from the doctors. John nodded in understanding and walked out of the room, leaving the doctors alone.

He leaned up against the wall, taking in deep long breaths seconds later. He couldn't believe this. This place was a prison; not a hospital. John was about to rush back to tell Sherlock and Lestrade what he had heard when whimpering from the room next door caught his attention. He slipped into the dark room to see a young woman with her hair up in a ponytail. She looked very sweet, but her eyes were wild.

"Hello," John called out to her. She gasped from his voice and stared at him wide eyed. John slowly approached her, sitting on a chair opposite of her. "You must be Molly; Sherlock's told me a lot about you." Molly's eyes lit up at the mention of the detective's name and she completely relaxed.

"Did he get my message?" she asked, fiddling clumsily with her fingers. John nodded and looked around only to find the place as dull as Sherlock's.

"I'm Dr. Watson by the way," John informed her. Again, Molly's eyes widened.

"Dr. _John_ Watson?!" she shouted in surprise. John jumped back in his seat, surprised and bewildered by her reaction.

"Ummm…yes," John informed her, nodding slowly. "Why? Is something wrong?" Molly quickly shook her head and jumped up onto her feet, pacing the room. John watched her, surprised by this sweet young woman. How did she know his name? Did another doctor tell her or had she been listening to the conversation in the other room?

"Dr. Watson, you are a loyal man, are you not?" Molly asked. John nodded, not really understanding where she was going with this. "Then will you remain loyal to the man you claim to believe no matter what?" Molly asked.

"Of course!" John shouted, offended that she would think of him doing such a thing.

"I'm sorry, but I have to know, Dr. Watson. The last thing Sherlock needs is for someone he trusts to work against him," Molly informed him with apologetic eyes. John un-tensed and stood to his feet.

"Well, don't worry about it. I believe in him. No one can change my mind about that," John stated triumphantly, reaching for the door.

"Even if it is Sherlock Holmes who changes it?" Molly asked. John twirled around to ask what she meant, but when he did he found himself all alone. She was just…gone. Like she was just something of his imagination.


	6. Chapter 6

_Chapter 6_

John walked down the hallway with Sherlock Holmes at his side. John had been assigned to help clean out one of the old storage areas and Sherlock had surprisingly volunteered to help. _"It's better than sitting locked up in some dark room," _he had said. John didn't fight the man. There wasn't really a point on fighting anyway. If he wanted to help he could help. Anyway, John enjoyed the detectives company. He still had an uneasy feeling, though about Sherlock. Ever since Molly's disappearing act. He hasn't told Sherlock about what he and Molly discussed yet, but he has been meaning to. He wanted to ask what she had meant when she had said: _"Even if it is Sherlock Holmes who changes it?"_ He had not understood what she meant. Why would Sherlock change John's mind about trusting him? It just didn't make any-

"John!" Sherlock repeated roughly breaking out of John out of his reverie. John shook his head, clearing his mind as he realized the detective had been speaking to him the entire time. "Were you listening to me?" Sherlock snapped. John shook his head.

"Sorry," he began apologetically. "I was just…thinking…" Sherlock frowned at him, his eyes focusing on him harder.

"About what?" John opened his mouth, but snapped it shut. The last thing he needed was to sound crazy. Molly's disappearing act was probably nothing.

"Nothing…" John sighed, shaking his head and looking ahead of them. "There's the storage room. Let's go."

The storage room was piled high to the ceiling with boxes filled with everything imaginable; literary. Umbrellas were packed tightly together in a box along with some rotting black leather jackets that actually looked brown from age. Books were stacked up on the floor. Most of them were old medical books, but others looked like old children stories; one of them being a book of Grimm's fairytales. John didn't know why but the book packed neatly in the orange envelope with the red print on it seemed familiar. He suddenly felt a painful shock in his abdomen as he stared at it and a painful knocking in his head. No, wait…the knocking was just Sherlock. John turned his head to see Sherlock knocking at a three-inch dust covered panel on the floor.

"What are you doing?" John grumbled, forgetting about the book completely and the shocking pain vanished like it never occurred. Sherlock waved a hand at him to come over and John knelt down by the detectives side.

"The panel's loose…I think there may be something down here," Sherlock stated. John glanced down at the panel, noticing the echoing sound it made as Sherlock hit it and how it didn't fit right in the floor.

"Do you want me to help you?" John asked. Sherlock paused for a moment, but eventually shook his head no. John let out a long sigh and got back to his feet over to the cluttered boxes. He glanced back at the detective as his fiddled with the panel. His black curls were curving in every direction and falling into his eyes. He was in desperate need of a haircut, which John will have to attempt tonight. His brilliant eyes lighted up the room with their icy blue color. He was wearing a long sleeved white hospital shirt and pants. The clothes were baggy on him and with his scrappy hair it made him look like the part of a madman.

"GOT IT!" Sherlock shouted out in triumph and pulled the panel away, revealing a secret compartment. John strode over excitedly and kneeled down by the detective. They both looked into the box to see that sheets of tattered and half burned papers were sitting in it. They were barely readable, but there were two words that were still recognizable on the old crumbling paper. _Sherlock Holmes_.

"What are-"

"They're my missing files," Sherlock interrupted, staring at the papers with widened eyes. John's eyes widened just as much and stared down at the papers. "Why would they be here…unless…"

"Unless what?" John asked, feeling his heart pounding. Sherlock looked at him now in the eyes.

"The doctors did this to hide the truth." John's face paled instantly. His eyes drifted back to the demolished papers. If that was true then they did a phenomenal job. There would be no way for them to decipher what had once been on the papers. Sherlock reached out a hand to take the papers, his sleeve pulling up as he did so. That's when John saw it. It looked like nothing at first, but as John looked at it closer he realized that it was far from nothing.

"Sherlock!" John shouted, seizing the detective's wrist. Sherlock flinched and yelped out at the sudden attack.

"What are you-" John blocked out Sherlock's question. Instead he stared at the detectives pale wrist. Right in the middle of his wrist was a deep gash cutting deep into the veins and…ugh…was that the pearly white marble of bone showing through the deep gash. John sucked in a breath, watching as blood pooled out from the wound and stained Sherlock's sleeve. Sherlock didn't even flinch as John pressed at the wound.

"Sherlock, how…how did you get this?!" John shouted. He was mainly wondering how he did not notice it before. Sherlock stared at him in confusion and glanced down to where John was pressing on his wrist.

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock asked, pulling his hand away. John went to take Sherlock's hand again, but when he got hold of it the gash was completely gone like it was never there. The blood wasn't even on Sherlock's clothes any longer like it had just seconds ago.

"How-"

"Let go!" Sherlock shouted again. This time John did as he was told and watched as the detective pulled away from him.

"What was that all about?!" Sherlock shouted, looking rather pale. John ran a hand through his hair and stared at the hand that should have been covered in Sherlock's thick red blood. It wasn't. John looked up at Sherlock. He opened his mouth to tell the truth, but then he stared into Sherlock's eyes. They weren't frightened, they weren't angry. No, they were just _worried_.

"Sorry, just…just a bad flash back." John lied, guessing that the answer would worry the detective less if it wasn't about something that wasn't there. Sherlock relaxed slightly and a small smile curved from the corners of his lips.

"No, it's…fine. I think we should go back to my room though," Sherlock stated, picking up the papers carefully from their hiding spot. John nodded, striding over to the door and opening for Sherlock. Sherlock walked past him, quickly hiding the papers under his shirt. John let out a sigh, glad that the detective had not deduced the truth out of him. He couldn't understand it though. Was he going mad? He glanced back at Sherlock's wrist, which was still unmarked. John shook himself. He had to stay strong. For Sherlock's sake. He couldn't fall to the will of this evil place. Not now, not ever!

Sherlock strode a few steps ahead of John, wanting to walk a little on his own. He lifted his hand, staring at the wrist John had taken. Had John really seen it? Could this be true? But if he did see it then why did he lie about having a flash back? Sherlock puzzled over the idea for a moment. John had just said _a_ flashback, he wasn't specific. Maybe…just maybe he was remembering. Sherlock felt a wave of relief spring through him, covering the throbbing pain in his wrist. He dragged his fingers along the long deep cut in his wrist. Bone was visible through the muscle tissue and blood dribbled everywhere. Something flashed behind Sherlock's eyes. Foggy images lashed out at him, making his head ache and a shocking pain stabbed his body. Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment and when he opened them once again the wound was gone along with the shocking pains…hidden by his madness or maybe his madness was why he was seeing it.

"_No,_" Sherlock whispered. "_I'm not mad…I'm not crazy,"_ he repeated to himself silently.

"What was that, Sherlock?" John asked, quickening his pace so he could keep up. Sherlock shook himself and smirked at his doctor…no, his _friend_. His _best_ friend.

"Just wanted to know if you were up for a game of chess," Sherlock lied. John's face fell into a pout.

"Why would you want to play that? You _always_ win," John sighed. Sherlock shrugged casually.

"Exactly," Sherlock said smugly. This earned him a smile.

"Alright then," John sighed, holding up his hands in surrender. Sherlock chuckled at him and then shouted out, sending the words bouncing down the halls throughout the asylum,

"The Game Is on!"


	7. Chapter 7

_Chapter 7_

John sat with Sherlock outside, watching as the dark storm clouds rolled past the Mental Hospital. John had to practically yank Sherlock out of his room, but he succeeded. He figured that is wasn't healthy for Sherlock to be cooped up all day. They weren't bored at least anyway. John had brought out a chess set for them to play while sitting out on the back porch. Sherlock, with great pleasure has beaten the poor doctor ten times in a row now, though.

"Check mate." Correction, eleven times. John let out a heavy sigh and looked out at the dead garden lining the hospital. He wondered how long it's been since the flowers bloomed last. He wondered how long it's been since a patient actually got to see the beauty of the vibrant colors radiating from the pedals. "John?"

"Sorry, what?" John stated, coming back to the present.

"It's starting to rain," Sherlock stated, pointing toward the sky as small beads of water rained down from the sky.

"Want to go back in?" John asked, getting ready to put away the chess game. Sherlock glanced at the doors and then back up at the rumbling sky. His eyes were distant; not like they were when John first met the detective. His eyes were worse now, ever since they found his burned papers…and since John attacked him. John shivered. They never talked about what John thought he saw and John was always glad. He didn't want to think of the idea that he may be going mad as well.

"I think we can tolerate the weather a little longer," Sherlock muttered.

"Alright, I'll be right back. I'm going to get us some rain coats," John informed the detective as he got up to go inside. John was about to open the door when Sherlock asked plainly,

"You're not going to tell me to stay put?" Sherlock asked, holding a chess piece up close to his face. John pushed the door open, smiling a small smile.

"I trust you, Sherlock," john stated before disappearing through the doorway. Sherlock glanced back at the doorway, surprised by John's loyalty toward him. After all, he was just a madman to John at the moment. Sherlock glanced at the cobblestone pathway that led away from the mental hospital. The grass was brown and tall all around the hospital and the forest just ahead. Sitting on a branch on a battered willow tree, cawed an ugly black crow with beady black eyes. It stared right at Sherlock as it ruffled its feathers. Sherlock glowered at it. He hated crows. They were always a sign of something bad and so far this crow was the only living animal outside the hospital that he was allowed to see. He was not blessed with the soft chirp of the bluebirds or the peck of a hungry woodpecker. The soft kiss of a butterfly no longer touched his shoulder. Even the wind felt harsh and icy against his pale skin.

"Pawn to E5," Lestrade said, suddenly appearing out of nowhere like usual. Sherlock set the chess piece he had been fiddling with back on the board and made his move.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked, studying the board carefully.

"Can't I come play a simple game with my friend?" Lestrade asked, taking one of Sherlock's pawns.

"You're not even the real Detective Inspector. He's still on his case and I'm stuck here; trapped with you," Sherlock huffed.

"Well, once you and your John Watson get your full memory back and somehow escape the inescapable you'll be back on that bloody case with me then," Lestrade sighed. "Whenever that will be." Sherlock ignored the figment of his imagination, wishing that he would disappear, but also wishing that he would stay. Lestrade had been the only person other than Molly he could speak to without fearing for his life. The doctors were not to be trusted and the other patients…well…they are not what they appear. "You could leave now," Lestrade whispered as Sherlock made his move. Sherlock stiffened, glaring at the figment of his shattered mind. The figment smiled back. His face was creased with wrinkles and lines from both age and sleepless nights. His eyes were bloodshot and lined with dark bruises, adding to the weary patient act.

"What?" Sherlock asked, taking in steady breaths to calm himself.

"John's gone, all you have to do is walk down that road," Lestrade stated, nodding down at the cobblestone path.

"I can't-"

"Why not?"

"John trusts me." Lestrade put his head in his hands and sighed deeply, shaking his head with disappointment.

"Do you really think that he trusts you that much? Tell him who he is to you. Let's see what he thinks of you after that." Sherlock's eyes blazed at the DI.

"Leave me alone," Sherlock hissed.

"Do it, Sherlock, run away."

* * *

John walked into the storage unit they had failed cleaning up several days ago, searching for a couple of spare coats. There were two that he was sure would fit him and Sherlock perfectly fine. One would be way to warm for the weather. It was a green parka, but it looked like it would fit himself perfectly fine. The other coat was a fine black coat that might just fit Sherlock's skinny body. John pulled at the coats, accidently knocking over a box with one of the coats. He stopped and stared down at the cardboard box that now lay open on the floor, spilling out a jumper much like the one he wears, a blue scarf and a few other things that seemed to catch his attention. The jumper was old; very old. Moths had already chewed holes through the fabric. The scarf might have been a lovely dark blue, but age and the lack of sunlight had dulled it to almost a grey. It smelt too; not like mothballs or mold, but of something else. A coppery smell with a touch of something heavy. John lifted it up curiously. A dark stain decorated half or it. It was a crusting brown color.

"_I will…_" John flinched at the sudden whisper. His eyes flew all around, searching for the one who spoke them. It was useless, though. He was all alone. He stared back at the scarf; his eyes staring at it carefully. "_Burn…"_ John's head screamed as the word pounded around inside his skull. He swished his head back and forth, searching once again, but he was still alone. John buried his face in the scarf and inhaled it's sent. The coppery heavy smell choked him instantly, making him gag. A pain shot through John's body as the next word was whispered from nobody. "_You."_ Sweat rolled down John's face, his hands clutching the scarf in a death grip. Blurred images flashed through his mind. Was this…was this…

"Dr. Watson!" Molly shouted from deep inside the hallway. John dropped the coats, completely forgetting about the scarf that now tumbled onto the floor and the whispers. He was too alarmed by the frightened tone in Molly's voice and darted out of the room, forgetting about everything.

"What's wrong, Molly?" John stated, catching her in his arms as she ran into him. Molly pulled herself close to John, burring her face in his shoulder as she sobbed uncontrollably. Her hair was all over the place and her body trembled in…was it fear? "What's wrong?" John asked again, gently rubbing his hand against her back. The girl shivered under his touch and slowly pulled away from him. Her eyes were just as distant as Sherlock's and her fingers picked nervously as each other. Molly took in a big gulp of air and stuttered quickly,

"Sherlock…he…he…" Her tears fell more heavily and John felt a sudden fear lurch through him like a tidal wave. He didn't push her, though. He waited for her, smiling as gently as he could. Molly looked back up at him and what came out of her mouth next made John ill.

"Sherlock's gone."


	8. Chapter 8

_Chapter 8_

John blanched instantly.

"What do you mean gone?" he asked, fearing the answer. Gone meant so many things; gone as in MIA, gone as in…as in…dead. Did he really want to know the answer? Molly looked down at her feet, trembling again. Her fingers entwined around her dress tightly.

"He's missing." John felt his heart splinter into billions of shards in his chest. _Missing_? What did that mean? John took Molly in his hands, looking at her in her big bright eyes.

"How…why?" John stuttered, his mouth not working fast enough. Molly lowered her gaze from his. Her body was trembling and her eyes were starting to tear up. John bit down on his lip and pulled Molly into a hug. She was troubled, he realized. He can't push her. She has clearly been through way to much already.

"Never mind Molly," John whispered. He pulled away from her and stared out into the halls.  
"I'll find him, I promise," he said, giving her a gentle kiss on the cheek before dashing down the long deserted hallway, heart pumping fast.

Molly stared after him, tilting her head to the side playfully. A crooked smiled pulled at her lips and she couldn't keep herself from laughing.

"Do you think John will be able to stop them," Molly asked, turning around to come nose to nose with Lestrade. The inspector, who had not made a single noise in his approach now smiled at her with the exact crooked smile that was etched on Molly's face.

"Why did you come to, John?" Lestrade asked, ignoring Molly's previous question. Molly's smile fell into a scowl at the inspector, her eyes shimmering in the dull light.

"I just thought-"

"You thought wrong," Lestrade spat. Molly took a few steps back. Lestrade's skin was transparent and his eyes were highlighted by the dark bruises lining his even darker eyes. He looked like a ghost who had crawled his way out of hell. Molly opened her mouth to ask what made him so sure when a scream bounced along the walls. She flinched and stared at the vent above them. Lestrade didn't even seem to notice. "That is _him_," Lestrade hissed. Molly paled even more.

"My god," Molly gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. "Have they no mercy?!" She cried. Lestrade laughed at her and turned on his heal to stare down the opposite side of the hallway.

"They don't have anything for him…"Another scream echoed through again. This time Lestrade did flinch. "Or Doctor Watson," Lestrade finished.

"Do you think they will be able to save each other?" Molly asked. She could almost feel the tears forcing their way out of her eyes. Lestrade stared absently down the hall, his chest rising and falling smoothly as he thought.

"If that is the John Watson Sherlock believes in, then yes, I believe they will," Lestrade sighed with a casual shrug. "However, if he's just like us I fear that our dear consulting detective will be fighting for more than his sanity tonight."

* * *

"SHERLOCK!" John screamed; letting the doors burst open as he ran outside. A dark mist was now curling around the asylum. The chess game was laying against the ground the knights and queens were chipped and broken. Chairs and the table were kicked over, lying in the smashed flower bed. _"What happened here?" _John wondered to himself. He looked around, hoping that he may find a clue to Sherlock's whereabouts.

"Looking for the Freak?" a hoarse voice from behind cawed like a dying crow. John whirled around; fire in his eyes, but it was replaced with gentleness as he saw who had spoken them. A patient with curly dark hair was standing by the open door with a young man with thin brown hair at her side. John let his eyes scan over them for a moment. He never remembered seeing them before; and yet…and yet he felt like he knew them.

"Freak?" John asked, wondering if the woman was one of those patients that can see magical creatures. The woman rolled her eyes at him.

"I'm talking about that freak of a human being Sherlock Holmes!" she spat. John felt anger begin to broil up into him as this arrogant woman spoke, but he kept himself as calm as possible. He had no time to fight with some patient. He needed to find Sherlock.

"Tell me where he is," John ordered.

"Are you sure you want to know? They're saving us from a lifetime of headaches," the patient stated, holding her hips with her hands. John gritted his teeth down, trying his best to keep from lashing out at this rude little patient. After taking a deep and well needed breath he hissed in a cold voice,

"Tell me."


	9. Chapter 9

_Chapter9_

"Sherlock!" John shouted, smacking his fists against the door that separated him from the consulting detective. The patients he spoke to before had been right about where Sherlock was. John had not wasted a second getting there, but now he was trapped on the wrong side of the door. John kicked at the metal frame bolted with locks and swore under his breath in hate. "Answer me, Sherlock!" he screamed louder. There was silence. John's heart pounded hard against his chest. He had to get in there. With a deep breath John took a few steps back and smashed his body against the door, which opened instantly. Once inside John felt like he was going to be ill. Something flashed behind his eyes for a moment, sending a pain through his head and body. A man with pale skin and dark curls was in the flash. A blue scarf was tightly wrapped around his throat and a big black coat was draped around him, but John could still see the deep gash in his wrist over the sleeve of the majestic coat. John watched as the man's head lolled to the side and those familiar blue eyes stared into his weekly.

"John-" and then with another throb of pain the image was gone and John was left staring at the horrific sight in front of him. Sherlock was strapped against the metal table. His shirt was unbuttoned, allowing wires to connect to his chest and abdomen. Sherlock's head was slumped to the side, his sweaty curls hiding his face from John's gaze, but the doctor could still tell that he was in unspeakable pain. John's eyes blazed at Henry, who was manning the machine behind the burns scattered on Sherlock's body.

"John, can you give us a moment please?" Henry asked coolly before nodding at the doctor John had seen inject some kind of drug into Lestrade his first day. The female doctor nodded back and swiped the hair away from Sherlock's eyes.

"Who are you?" she asked him. Sherlock didn't respond. Impatiently the doctor slapped his face lightly to get his attention. Sherlock's eyes flickered open and closed a few times, glaring at the woman.

"The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street," Sherlock croaked. His voice was so raspy and so full of pain John wanted to die right there and then. The woman frowned at Sherlock, flipping her elegant hair back.

"Is that your final answer, Mr. Holmes?" She asked gingerly. Sherlock's eyes swept over to John, searching John's eyes for just a second and then his attention was back to her.

"No, actually, it isn't. Are you cheating on Dr. Henry with Dr. Miller, Dr. Harper, or did you just happen to use the same shampoo as him?" Henry's face along with the woman's grew bright red and their eyes burned into the consulting detective. Sherlock's eyes squeezed shut as Henry turned the knobs on the machine and flicked a switch, sending a current of electricity into Sherlock.

"Stop!" John shouted, rushing at the machine and turning the knobs off. Sherlock gasped as the pain ended and his body went limp against the cool table, sweat falling in rivers down his face. John ran to his side, ripping the wires off of him as fast as his hands could.

"John?" Sherlock croaked, looking up at him with weary eyes. John shushed him gently, brushing the hair out of the detective's face and said soothingly over and over again,

"It's alright, I'm here." A small smile curled over Sherlock's lips, which were bloody from biting down on them so hard.

"I knew you'd come…you always do…" Sherlock trailed off as the pain and energy spent on talking became too much for him to bear.

"What are you doing?! He was talking to himself! We need to treat him!" Henry shouted, snatching up Sherlock's file and waving it in John's face. This only made the explosion bubbling in John blow.

"Treat him?!" John shouted, not stopping from unstrapping Sherlock from the cold table. "You're torturing him!"

"What is going on in here?!" Mr. Darcie thundered, stepping into the room. His white lab coat was ruffled like he had been running in a hurry to see what all the commotion was about. Even his glasses were slightly tilted to the side.

"We were treating Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson just barged in and interrupted his treatment!" Henry shouted, pointing an accusing finger at John. Dr. Harper stated a few words as to help defend Henry, but John didn't hear them he was too worried about Sherlock. The man looked absolutely demolished. Scars lined his shivering body and his clothes were absolutely drenched in sweat. He looked like he had been tortured longer than just an hour or two.

"Tell me, Dr. Henry; is Sherlock Dr. Watson's patient?" Mr. Darcie asked, straitening his glasses and smoothing back his hair.

"Yes, but-"

"So then Dr. Watson decides on his treatment." Mr. Darcie turned to John, who had finished un-strapping Sherlock and was now holding the energy drained detective in his arms. "Dr. Watson, take Sherlock back to his room and handle him in how you feel fit," Mr. Darcie said, stepping aside to allow them to get to the door. John nodded his thanks to his boss and looked down at Sherlock's body as it lay in his arms.

"Can you walk?" John asked the consulting detective. Sherlock nodded tiredly and John helped him off the table and out of the room.

* * *

Once they were back at Sherlock's room John treated the burns on Sherlock's body and lay him down in his bed. Sherlock watched John carefully check over the burns, looking for anything that may have been too much damage.

"Thank you," Sherlock croaked.

John looked up at Sherlock wide eyes as the detective spoke the two words. "You're welcome," John stated. He didn't know why he seemed so surprised to hear those words come out of Sherlock's mouth. Maybe this long day was just messing with his mind.

John stood up as he finished checking the burn scars blotching Sherlock's pale body. He had done everything he could for Sherlock, but he still felt like he needed to do more. The detective was worn out and stiff from his _treatment_ and looked desperate for sleep now. His head was bobbing and his eyes fluttered tiredly as he stared away into the distance of the small badly lit room.

"Why don't you get some sleep?" John stated, taking a seat at the edge of the bed. Sherlock lifted his head from his knees and stared at his doctor.

"I'm fine," he stated, letting his head fall heavily again on top of his knees. John frowned at the man's stubbornness, but quickly softened. He had figured the very first day he met Sherlock that he didn't sleep like he should and he had a feeling he knew why.

"No you're not, Sherlock, you're tired," John stated. Sherlock remained silent. "Do you trust me?" John asked suddenly. This got Sherlock's attention. The man's head shot up and his sharp blue eyes searched John's.

"With my life," Sherlock finally stated. John tensed in surprise. He knew that Sherlock had trust in him, but he never thought that Sherlock trusted him that much. John shook himself and then stated gently to Sherlock,

"Then trust me when I tell you that you can sleep in peace tonight." Sherlock hesitated for a few moments, but John felt a smile spread across his lips as Sherlock let his head rest against the pillow and let his eyes fall shut. John watched the even rise and fall of Sherlock's chest has he drifted farther and farther away into sleep. Once he knew the detective was sleeping for sure John then lifted himself from the bed and strolled over to the doorway. There was no denying it now. He believed Sherlock and there was no way he was going to allow him to stay in this horrible place for another day. It was time they left.


	10. Chapter 10

_Chapter 10_

John walked down the halls. He wanted to leave, but he knew that he couldn't just run away without taking Lestrade and Molly with him and Sherlock. They needed to get out of here too. This place was hurting them and it was time for that to end.

"Lovely night isn't it, Doctor?" Mr. Darcie's voice cooed as John turned the corner. John stared at the man that now stood before him. He quickly hid away his anger and greeted his boss with a smile.

"Yes, it is, Sir, I was just going to get a few pain killers for Sherlock," John stated. A smile traced over Mr. Darcie's face.

"How is your patient?" he asked.

"He's been better, but I believe he'll make it through this," John stated, twiddling with his fingers. Darcie's eerie smile was beginning to worry him. "Personally I think his mental health is much better when he's not being shocked to the point of death." Darcie's face hardened.

"John, you must understand that Sherlock is here for a reason and that his mind tricks can be dangerous." John stared at him in confusion.

"Mind tricks?" he asked. Darcie nodded, pulling a file from his coat and saying,

"Yes, I'm afraid so. Sherlock has had ten years to come up with ways of manipulating people into getting what he wants. He's clever, yes, but not invincible. Richard learned that too late I'm afraid." John gritted his teeth. What was he listening to? What proof did he have to accuse Sherlock of being a fake…a lie?

"I have to go," John stated, deciding that he wanted nothing to do with what Darcie said. Before he could take a step however, Darcie's hand stopped him. John looked over his shoulder and listened as Darcie quickly informed,

"Richard had called Sherlock brilliant from the deductions the madman presented and even claimed him of being wrongly accused, but eventually the stories he heard began to seem false. When Richard refused to believe Sherlock any longer he was accused of being some villain known as Moriarty and killed. When you opened that hatch in the storage room and found those destroyed files on him how do you know he didn't plant those there? How could he have even found that hatch without knowing ahead of time? This all would explain why some of our records on him are missing. He took them and used them to fool you."

"How did you know about us finding the hatch?" John hissed, fists shaking at his sides as he listened to Darcie's poison. Darcie simply smirked at John.

"Do you really think we don't keep cameras around in this place?" Darcie asked not too kindly. John bit at his lip, planning his next words carefully.

"How do I not know that you aren't the one telling false stories?" John snapped, pulling away from Darcie. Darcie was silent. He simply just stared into John's eyes, reading him carefully. It made John feel uncomfortable.

"Ask him about his past." John's entire body went rigid. _What? What was he implying?_

"He doesn't remember and I don't blame him after watching what you do to patients," John hissed, glaring daggers into Darcie.

"Are you positive, John? Have you ever asked how much he really thinks remembers?" John stayed silent. He didn't know what else he could say. He wasn't positive about what Sherlock's life really was. All he knew was that he was a consulting detective. He didn't really know anything more than that. A pain rattled through John's head as his head worked through all these knew thoughts; a horrible shocking pain. He could only react in one way. All he could do was run; run away back to Sherlock and plead that he was right about the madman and Darcie was not.

Darcie cackled as he watched John bolt back to Sherlock's room.

"Good luck getting him to believe in you now, Sherlock. Doubt has been planted in his mind and he shall be your downfall."

* * *

Sherlock's dreams were all the same. They were bits and pieces of his _real_ life; a life where Lestrade _did_ work as a DI and a life where Molly _did_ work in a morgue. He saw a life where he had a brother called Mycroft and a loyal flat mate. He knew that the dream was real. He could feel it. Those doctors were all wrong. He was _NOT_ crazy!

Sherlock sat in his flat, dressed in a large coat and scarf. He was typing on his phone just like always and just like always Lestrade stepped through the doorway.

"Hello, Sherlock," Lestrade beamed. Sherlock looked up from his phone and stared straight into Lestrade with his sharp blue eyes.

"What do you want?" he hissed through his teeth. Lestrade grinned at him wildly and sat down into his flat mate's chair.

"You have to tell him you know," Lestrade stated in a slight whisper. "The only way for the both of you to escape is that you both believe." Sherlock chewed at his lip, nervously. He knew that, but was it the right time to do this? If he says the wrong thing he could lose John completely and they both will be stuck in this infernal prison forever. What will he do if John doesn't believe him? Then what will he have? When he had seen John walk through his door he had been so relieved, but then John didn't seem to remember him and Sherlock's world again took another step backward. Lestrade seemed to notice Sherlock's distress and then stated gently, "Sherlock, you trust him and he trusts you. You just need him to listen." Sherlock nodded, getting up from his chair and staring out the window. A crow was sitting on the roof of a neiboring building, staring right into his eyes with it's cold black eyes.

"How do I do that then?" Sherlock said silently to both himself and Lestrade.

"Make him believe," Lestrade stated, before blinking into nothing but specks of dust. The crow from outside flew from the roof of the building it had been sitting on, cawing four times before disapearing into the foggy night. Sherlock looked down at his hands. He could see the heavily bleeding mark on his wrist and countless bruises. He shivered as he thought over Lestrade's words. _"Make him believe."_ Yes, but how? How do you make someone who doesn't even know you believe?

* * *

**Hmmm...so what do you all think? Will John believe Sherlock or Darcie? Will Sherlock tell John the truth? Let's hear some of your brilliant theories! **


	11. Chapter 11

_Chapter 11_

"Sherlock! Sherlock, wake up!" John shouted, shaking the detective awake. Sherlock's eyes flashed open and took in his surroundings. No longer was he in his flat. He was back in his room at the asylum again. Squeezing his eyes Sherlock mumbled to himself,

"_No…No, not again."_ He wanted so much to just open his eyes for once and find himself in the dimly lit sitting room of 221B. He missed the wallpaper with the yellow smiley face and his skull. He missed Mrs. Hudson and even Mycroft.

"Sherlock!" John's voice shouted, snapping Sherlock's attention back to him. Sherlock looked his friend over. His eyes were frantic and wide. Sherlock bit at his lip. Something was obviously bothering him and he had a feeling he knew what.

"John, I have to tell you something-"

"I have to ask you something first," John interrupted. Sherlock felt his stomach twist suddenly. John looked so fearful, like he was looking into the solemn face of a ghost.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked, slowly sitting up in his bed. He was still so sore from his _therapy_ from before. John took Sherlock's hands and asked carefully,

"Who are you?" Sherlock stared at him. He would have answered with his full name and his address like he had always done for the _doctors_, but he knew that that wasn't what John was asking. He wanted to know the truth.

"I _am_ a consulting detective that lives in a flat at Baker Street in London. I work on cases with Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade and a girl who works in the morgue back home called Molly Hooper, who is always stuttering around me for who knows what reason. I was on a case with my best friend, but something happened to us. I woke up here afterword, but didn't find my friend again till now," Sherlock told him. John stared at him, his hands shaking. Sherlock could feel John's pulse beating faster as he held John's hands gently in his...or was that just his own pulse?

"Who is your friend, Sherlock?" Sherlock and John both looked at each other for the longest time before Sherlock finally answered,

"You." John instantly paled and jumped away from Sherlock, eyes wild.

"What…what…what is this?" John stuttered, running a hand through his hair. Sherlock attempted to jump to his feet to John's side, but the pain stopped him instantly. Instead he fell back onto the bed, grasping his sides in pain.

"John, please just…just listen to me-"

"Listen to you?!" John hollered, taking a few steps away from him. "Why are you telling me this, Sherlock, I believed you, but this is just…just…"

"Crazy?" Sherlock assisted. John stared at him for a good long while, making Sherlock fidget nervously.

"I'm sorry, but I have to go," John sighed, walking to the door. Fear pelted Sherlock's heart and without thinking he dashed from the bed and grabbed John by his shoulders. John paled at Sherlock's actions and tried to pull away, but Sherlock kept his grip tight, ignoring the pain running throughout his body.

"John, please just let me prove it. Please…I need you to believe!" Sherlock shouted. John struggled in Sherlock's grip; absolutely terrified by the man he had been calling a friend the past few days.

"I'm sorry, but I…I can't…this…this isn't right. Please, just let me go," John pleaded. Sherlock didn't let go, though. His actions were moving faster than his head.

"John, I can't…I can't do this without you. You have to believe me!" Sherlock's grip became painfully tight and John was becoming more and more terrified. Everything he had heard from Darcie seemed to make sense now. Was this what happened to Richard Brook? Was Sherlock going to kill him too now? Oh, god! Sherlock was mad…crazy! How could he have been so blind to the truth? John knew one thing. He wasn't going to allow himself to follow in the same footsteps as poor Dr. Brook. Acting on instinct he slammed his foot against Sherlock's abdomen, where the burns were the worst. Sherlock collapsed hard against the floor, sputtering as red hot pain burned throughout his body. "John, please…" he trailed off as he tried again to pick himself up off the floor. John stared at the madman that lay on the cool tiles one last time and swung open the door.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes," John stated as he closed the door behind him. He could hear Sherlock's muffled cries from inside the room and his fists pounding frantically against the door, pleading for him to just listen; to believe. John couldn't do that. This was just too much. A man he had believed to be a friend had lied and tricked him. That's probably what hurt the most. Without looking back, John ran from the room to the back doors. He was getting out of here and he didn't care who he left behind. Not Molly, Lestrade, and definitely not that fake Sherlock Holmes.


	12. Chapter 12

_Chapter 12_

John was just running down the cobblestone paths when he saw Lestrade standing in front of him with a dark glint in his eye. John stopped in his tracks, breathing hard from the run.

"Get away from me," John gasped, taking a few steps back. Lestrade turned his head to the side, glaring at the doctor with blazing eyes, but he didn't say anything. No, instead John heard a small voice from behind. John turned around to meet the twinkling eyes of Molly. She had a sad look on her face and small tears were trickling from her eyes.

"You lied to me, Dr. Watson," Molly sniffled. John frowned at her.

"Me? What are you talking about?" John asked, stepping to the side so he could look at both of them at once.

"You promised me that you would remain loyal to him," Molly stuttered, clearing her eyes. "Even if he was the one who made you doubt." John shook his head.

"No, I was wrong. Mr. Holmes _is_ mad. I've never met him in my life-"

"ARE YOU REALLY THAT THICK?!" Lestrade screamed, slamming his fist into a tree and sending splinters skittering in every direction. John flinched, taking a few steps back until he was almost close enough to bump into Molly. "Did you even allow him to explain? Did you even pretend to listen?" John remained silent and watched as Lestrade fumed in anger. "He trusted you, John! You were his only hope to be free and you ruined it!" Lestrade barked.

"How could I believe him?!" John finally snapped back, earning silence from Lestrade at last. "I've never met him in my life and yet he says that we were living together!" John shouted. "How in god's name could listening have helped? I know my own life." John let silence surround them and waited for Lestrade to strike back. Lestrade took in a deep breath and then whispered in a soft and gentle voice,

"Mrs. Hudson." John paled; an image of an elderly woman in a flower printed dress walked through his mind. She was smiling at him and another figure. The figure was blurry, though. He couldn't see it. John shook his head, trying to get the picture out of his head, but it wouldn't leave. "She was your landlady. Do you remember her?" Lestrade asked. John shook his head, holding it as a headache pounded in his head.

"You and Sherlock were flat mates and _friends_." Molly stated as John closed his eyes, trying to block out the visions. It only made them clearer, though. A blurry figure of a man in a purple shirt was playing a beautiful violin and the lady Lestrade described was there pointing at a wall with a yellow smiley face painted on it.

"What did you do to my bloody wall?" John heard himself mumble. His hand darted to his mouth. Where had that come from? He noticed a smile on Lestrade's face and the DI then asked,

"Remember the day you first met?" John closed his eyes again, seeing himself and some man walk into a lab. The blurry figure was there, wearing a suit. He could see the picture clearly, but the sound was muffled. Somehow he knew exactly what everyone was saying.

"What's happening?" John gasped, opening his eyes.

"You're remembering," Molly informed him.

"But it never..." John trailed off as a new image walked into his view. He was in a dark pool. His body felt heavy. Ugh…what was he wearing? John pulled away the coat to see a bomb strapped to his chest. Fear and panic bubbled through him. What was that doing on him?! Suddenly, with a flash of light he was standing next to the pool staring at the blurry figure who was pointing a gun at someone standing next to him. John glanced to his left to see a man in a Westwood suit and a skull tie. His hair was just as dark as his eyes, which were covered completely in an insane fog. He recognized the man instantly. He had seen pictures and newspapers of him. It was Richard-

"_Jim Moriarty…HI!"_ the man John knew as Richard Brook sing songed. John's body instantly stiffened. He slowly opened his eyes and stared at Molly and Lestrade.

"Here," Molly called, tossing a blue scarf into his hands. "Maybe this will help you see him." John held the scarf up into the light. He let his eyes fall close. The blurry figure sharpened and cleared until it took form of the very man John accused as being a _fake_. It was Sherlock. Raven black curls in his face, a big dark coat, and blue scarf. John paled. He had seen that coat before! He had grabbed it when he was getting rain coats! John closed his eyes as another image of Sherlock called to him.

"_What I said before, John, I meant it. I don't have friends…I just got one," _Sherlock stated, sympathy dripping from his mouth. John felt his heart tug at the words. The last vision was the one that finally broke him. He was staring up at a building with a phone to his ear and a hand outstretched toward a dark figure standing on the edge of the building.

"_Goodbye, John,"_ a voice from the other end of the phone whispered. John pulled his eyes away from the scene. He knew what was happening. He could still see the man outstretch his hands and fall to his death. He could see the blood flowing down the pavement. He could see it. He could remember it.

"What have I done?" John gasped, leaning against a tree to keep himself from collapsing. "What have I done?" Lestrade and Molly stared at him with sad sympathetic eyes as memories blasted John left and right. He remembered. He remembered his friends, Moriarty, the fall, the return, but most of all he remembered Sherlock. Every piece of his life came running back to him, including the case that caused all of this. John's hands shook violently as he held his head in his hands. "What have I done?!" John repeated. Molly rested a hand on John's shoulder, smiling sweetly at him.

"You can still help him, John," Molly said soothingly. John looked at her with a hopeful gleam in his eye.

"Find him and believe," Lestrade stated. John stared at him and looked back over to the Asylum.

"I'm coming, Sherlock," John stated before running back to the one place he had wanted to run away from. Molly stepped over to Lestrade's side.

"Looks like we are no longer needed," she sighed sadly. Lestrade nodded.

"Let's just hope he gets there before it happens again." Molly paled, remembering the sight from the first time. It was going to be alright, though. They just have to hope John gets there in time.


	13. Chapter 13

_Chapter13_

John burst into Sherlock's room only to find a dented door, speckled with fresh blood. The room was completely torn apart. Breathing hard John ran back into the hallway. He should have known Sherlock would have found a way to escape. He was the most brilliant man in the world after all. John's eyes darted to room to room, but he figured he knew exactly where the detective was hidden. The last time Sherlock had been thought of as a fake John found him…well, he found Sherlock someplace where he had hoped he would never find him again.

After finally climbing the last of the steps John threw himself into the door, bursting it open with all his strength. His heart caught in his throat as his eyes fell on his best friend on the edge of the roof. His hands were fists at his sides, dripping in blood from pounding so hard on the door John had slammed in his face. They were shaking as well and John had to bight his lip to keep from falling back into a flashback of that night up on St. Bart's.

"SHERLOCK!" John screamed, taking a few short steps forward. He didn't want to frighten his friend, not when he's on the edge of a building. Sherlock's head turned slightly; a pained expression on his face, blue eyes shimmering in the light of the moon.

"I'm sorry, John," he whispered in the smallest voice John has ever heard him use.

"Sherlock…please –"

"This is the only way, John. I can't spend another day here, especially now that I've lost _everything_," Sherlock stated, his voice was shaking as he stood there on the edge. John could now see the tears fall from his friends face onto the tiles of the roof.

"Sherlock, I do-"

"Goodbye, John." John's face paled. _No, not again!_

* * *

**I'm sorry…did I just throw your favorite character off a roof? MWAHAHAHAHAHA!**


	14. Chapter 14

_Chapter 14_

"No, Sherlock!" John screamed, rushing at the man as he held out his hands and leaned forward. He wasn't going to lose him; not again. Reaching out his arms John found himself at the edge of the building. Without a second thought he lunged into the cool air, off the building, toward Sherlock's falling body. John grabbed Sherlock around the waist and pulled him close like it would protect the detective from death's grip. Sherlock looked at him startled.

"Please, Sherlock, don't leave me again," John sobbed, holding Sherlock close to him as they fell. Sherlock tensed in surprise of John's actions. "I remember…I remember everything," John reasoned. He closed his eyes, trying to force back the tears that kept falling down his face and soaking Sherlock's shirt. John buried his face deeper in Sherlock's neck and whispered softly, "I believe in you." It hadn't even been a second after saying those simple words and a pulse of electricity blast through their bodies. A blinding light flashed, forcing them both to shut their eyes, causing the miserably insane world they were living in to shatter into reality.

When John's eyes flew open again he wasn't at the Asylum anymore. He was in a worn down building strapped to a chair and covered in wires. He looked around, finding Sherlock in a chair next to him. He was no longer in the silly hospital clothes like before. He was now dressed in his usual attire. His head was lolled to the side, but his blue eyes were smiling weakly at the old doctor through the mess of hair on his head, but he looked like he had been from hell and back.

"Very good you two," a familiar voice cackled, stepping into view. John and Sherlock looked up to see the doctors and Mr. Darcie standing in front of them with maddened smiles. "Sadly, I'm afraid that we cannot let you live." Mr. Darcie walked to the controls of the machine that was connected to them with wires. The madman flipped the switches to their highest frequency and his hand hovered over the lever. Was this the end?


	15. Chapter 15

_Chapter 15 _

_(several days previous)_

"Sherlock, this is it," John stated, nudging the detective out of his thoughts as they came closer to the rundown building. It had been a long day for the both of them and John didn't even attempt to try to keep Sherlock awake when he dozed off in the cab. They had been on the case for days. The victims had all been through the same. Electrical shock therapy; to the point of their death. The victims had all been somewhat unstable, but most of them had medication to help them out throughout the issues. After checking the bruises on their wrists and the dirt under their shoes Sherlock came to the conclusion that they had been held at a rundown mental hospital. The one that fit the description perfectly was Brook's Mental Asylum. According to the files it had been shut down for using illegal treatments. The doctors were not arrested, however. They had all disappeared.

Sherlock let out a long yawn and stared out at the building.

"Ready?" he asked. John nodded, paying the cabbie and opening the door. They both walked down the cobblestone path, clutching their weapons tightly. The plants in the garden were dead and the porch was rotting away. Carefully, John pushed the door open to the asylum and they slipped inside. The place was a horrible mess. Medical papers blew gently against the dirty floor. Dust covered practically everything there. It was quiet too; too quiet. John felt shivers run up his skin as they walking down the crumbling hallways.

"Sherlock, this doesn't feel right-"

"John!" Sherlock was too late. Someone jumped out of one of the rooms and slammed his head roughly against the wall. John struggled, but as his attacker repeatedly smacked his head against the wall he could barely keep his sight strait to throw a punch. Lucky for him Sherlock was there. The detective jumped the man. He held the man down, but was knocked off when three others emerged from the other end of the hallway. John squinted his eyes. What was going on here? Why were there so many people here and who were they? He had no time to answer these questions, for Sherlock was surrounded. Sherlock swung his fists at them as he stood protectively in front of John, but one brought out a needle with a clear liquid inside and stabbed it deep into Sherlock's arm. Sherlock pulled away, but John could see the affects right away. Sherlock was swaying on his feet and his eyes were growing dimmer. A man in a doctor's coat stepped over to him and thrust his fist into Sherlock's face, sending the detective crashing to the floor. Sherlock tried to pick himself, but the attackers kept kicking him in the side to the point where Sherlock could barely move. Panic flooded John and the doctor sprang into action. He smacked into the attackers, hitting them away from his friend, but as soon as he was in arms reach his arm met the end of a needle as well. Grogginess clouded John's already swimming head and he felt himself collapse next to Sherlock's side.

They were dragged into a darkly lit room at the end of the hall. There were more people there with all kinds of old medical supplies and strange machines that have been illegal for the longest time. They were both forced into two chairs covered in wires and strapped tightly to them. John looked at the seven people in the room. He recognized all of them from the files. They were the original doctors of this freaky place.

"What do you want with us?" Sherlock rasped as the doctors secured them with straps. One of the doctors lunged at him with a scalpel and slashed a very deep gash into Sherlock's wrist. There was a crackling sound as the scalpel cut bone and sent a wave of blood everywhere. John let out a shout as the blood flew and bone became visible through the cut. Sherlock sucked in a breath, but he kept his fearless mask firmly on his face. John could see the pain in his eyes, though and the blood trickling from his lip as he bit down hard to keep from crying out.

"That's enough, Henry," a man with thick glasses shouted at the doctor that had slashed Sherlock's wrist. Henry stepped back and allowed the man with the thick glasses to step forward.

"You must be Mr. Darcie," Sherlock hissed through his teeth, remembering the file on him. Darcie gritted his teeth.

"Doctor is the correct term, Detective," he hissed.

"Not for you it is," John spat back. Fire blazed in Darcie's eyes, but John didn't fear him.

"Would you like a demonstration of my healing process like my other patients?" Darcie slurred, waving at his other doctors. Both Sherlock and John paled as the men brought out a machine that they both new enough about. They watched as the doctors unwound the wires and strapped them to the chairs they were sitting in and to their skin. Darcie smiled at them both wickedly

"Time for your treatment." As soon as he finished that sentence they were blasted with unbearable pain. Neither of them held back their cries as the pain grew more and more. John squeezed his eyes shut, praying for it to stop.

"JOHN!" Sherlock shouted out. John kept his eyes closed. "John, don't let the pain affect your mind! Don't lose yourself!" John bit down on his lip, tasting blood as he bit harder and harder. He tried to stay strong, but as the pain grew worse his head grew fuzzier. Sherlock kept calling out to him, but John could feel his will leaving him. "JOHN!" Sherlock called out, but the shout was broken as the doctors turned up the electricity on Sherlock. John forced his eyes open then, but he wasn't in the chair anymore or the Asylum. He was sitting with his sister on the couch.

"You alright, John?" Harry asked, nudging him from his sleep. John shook his head, aching allover. What had just happened? "You better get ready, your job at that mental hospital starts today," she said, getting up and walking into the kitchen. John looked around the room.

"Yeah, sorry, I just…had a nightmare," he sighed, picking himself off the couch.

"About what?" Harry asked. John was silent for a second. He closed his eyes, trying to bring back the dream, but it wasn't there. He had just _forgotten_.


	16. Chapter 16

_Chapter 16 _

_Previously: The madman flipped the switches to their highest frequency and his hand hovered over the lever. Was this the end?_

_(Now)_

They squeezed their eyes shut, waiting for death when suddenly, bullets rained throughout the room. Sherlock and John's eyes flew open only to see Lestrade and the rest of the Yard dashing into the room open fire. Doctors fell to the floor, spluttering up blood and wheezing in pain. Darcie gritted his teeth and glared at them with his dark eyes.

"I'm not done here," he hissed, flipping up the switch to the machine. John and Sherlock yelped in pain as electricity boiled through their body. Lestrade and Donavan fired at Darcie, scattering the doctor's blood all over the wall. Lestrade instantly dropped his gun and fled toward the machine, flipping the switch back to off and pulling the lever. The electricity instantly dissipated and John and Sherlock's heads lowered to their chests.

"HELP THEM!" Lestrade shouted, kneeling down by the detectives and unstrapping their bounds. Sally ripped the straps from John. Her eyes were frantic; almost like she cared that they had just been tortured. As soon as John was free he forced himself to his feet, ignoring the pain and rushed to Sherlock's side. Lestrade had freed Sherlock of his bounds and now the detective was lying motionless in his lap.

"Sherlock?!" John screamed, pulling Sherlock from Lestrade and holding him in his own arms. He looked over Sherlock, instantly noticing that his hand was completely coded in a blanket of scarlet and that under his chair a pool of the coppery blood was sitting. John's hands fumbled to Sherlock's neck to find a weak pulse. John sighed in relief. Well, at least he was alive. He clutched Sherlock closer to himself, stroking back the dark curls. "Sherlock?" John whispered softly, pleading that he'd awaken. Sherlock's eyes fluttered open slowly, revealing the bright blue eyes John had missed so much.

"Th…th…thanks," Sherlock stuttered, taking in sharp breaths. John frowned at him.

"For what?" John asked. Sherlock smiled at him.

"For b…believing," Sherlock sighed, resting his head against John's chest. His eyes fluttered shut once again and he instantly went still.

"SHERLOCK! Sherlock, you can't go to sleep!" John called, shaking the detective. Sherlock forced his eyes open again, looking so weary and aged.

"John, you need to let the paramedics take him now," Lestrade whispered into his ear, squeezing his shoulder gently. John pulled Sherlock closer to him. He didn't want to leave Sherlock again; _ever_. Lestrade wetted his lips and glanced over at the paramedics waiting right behind him. "I know this is hard, John, but Sherlock needs help. You have to let him go now." John's face tightened with fear and he felt his eyes begin to tear up.

"Lestrade, don't you see?! That's the problem! I let him go and almost lost him! I can't let that happen again," John sniffled. Lestrade was silent. He looked confused, but he wasn't really there with them for over ten days so how could he know what he was speaking of?

"John?" Sherlock's raspy voice croaked. John lowered his eyes to Sherlock's, which were now blood shot. "It's ok, I'll b…be alright. I p…promise." John stared at Sherlock for a long time and then one of the paramedics whispered softly,

"We'll make room for you both in one ambulance alright?" John looked down at Sherlock's paling body and the wrist that was still bleeding steadily. Carefully, he loosened his grip on Sherlock's body and he was instantly swarmed by paramedics. Lestrade stepped over to his side and helped him to his feet and away from Sherlock so the paramedics could do their thing. Once the paramedics had stopped the bleeding in Sherlock's wrist they placed a mask over Sherlock's face until Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed.

As soon as the detective was out they lifted him on a stretcher and headed out to the ambulance. John jumped in with Sherlock and the two speed off to the hospital.

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**Happy 4th of July everyone! Here's a new chapter for you all! Have a wonderful day!**


	17. Chapter 17

_Chapter 17_

John sat in Sherlock's room that night, waiting for the detective to wake up. He had been knocked out by the meds and was sleeping well. His wrist had needed stitches, a cast, and is definitely going to leave more than a scar. John wasn't any better. The doctors had wanted him to stay in bed, but after he threatened them with a call to Mycroft they left him to do whatever. Now here he sat, waiting for his friend to open his eyes.

"How is he?" Lestrade asked, walking into the room and over towards the chair on the opposite side of John. John shook his head sadly, staring at the sleeping figure.

"Still not awake," he sighed. Lestrade gave him a reassuring smile, but John didn't want it. He wanted his friend to wake up. They were silent now. The only sound in the room was the beep of the machines hooked to Sherlock. _Beep, beep, beep_. Oh how John both loved and hated it. Yes, it was a sign that Sherlock was alive, but it was also a sign that Sherlock was in the hospital with death lingering by his bedside.

"John?" Lestrade asked. John glanced up at the DI. He was holding the case file in his hands tightly. "You said you weren't going to leave him again…what did you…" he trailed off. John had turned away from him and was now staring back at Sherlock with the dimmest eyes he had ever seen. He instantly felt sorry for asking.

"The tortures were too much for us," John began. "Our minds slipped away, sending us into some horrible dreamland where Sherlock was a patient at the asylum and I was his doctor." Lestrade watched as John's hands started trembling.

"He…he almost…"

"It's ok, John, we don't have to talk about this now," Lestrade whispered, lending John his hand. John pulled away from him, his body trembling violently.

"No, Lestrade! Can't you see? I almost lost him again! I doubted him and left him alone just like…just like with Moriarty!" Lestrade paled instantly. So that was what this was all about. Lestrade wanted to say that it wasn't John's fault or that everything was alright, but he knew better. This wasn't some fairy tale where everything turns out happy. This was real life and he would just be lying to the good doctor. Yes, it wasn't John's fault for what happened, but that isn't what John believes or ever will believe.

"John, mistakes happen all the time. Heck, everyone has made at least one. Beating yourself up over it won't help Sherlock, though. You need to be strong for him," Lestrade said, moving his hand back to John's. The good doctor looked at him with a thankful smile, taking his hand and then turned to Sherlock, who was moving in his sleep now.

"How did you find us?" John finally asked, breaking the dreadful silence. Lestrade looked down at his hands and shrugged casually.

"It was nothing really. We noticed you two were missing a day and a half after you were captured. We had Mycroft go through CCTV to try and find you. When we saw you two get in a cab headed toward that old Asylum it all pieced together."

"And it took you over ten days to find us?" John asked, raising a brow. Lestrade sighed deeply and ruffled back his hair.

"Well, you know how it is with Mycroft. The man wouldn't let us go in until we were positive we weren't going to put you two through anymore danger than you already have."

"Hmm…" They all looked over toward Sherlock as his head tossed and turned on the pillow. He was mumbling something unintelligible. John got up from his seat and pressed his hand on Sherlock's face, causing the detective to flinch. He then leaned in close to the detective's ear and began whispering softly. Lestrade watched as he did this, silent the entire time. Sherlock's hand was clutching the bed sheets in a death grip and his breathing was fast paced.

"Come on, Sherlock, wake up," John whispered, shaking the detective gently. Sherlock's head turned to the side, his eyes flickering open for a moment and then closed again tightly.

"No, no, not here," Sherlock mumbled as his eyes opened again; not really seeing around him.

"Lestrade, I need your help," John stated calmly, trying to hold down the detective. Lestrade held down Sherlock's arms as he struggled and John tapped Sherlock's cheek gently, trying to get the detective to focus on him.

"What's wrong with him?" Lestrade asked in shock by his friend's actions.

"Remembering," John stated simply. "Sherlock?" He tapped at the consultant's cheek, drawing the glazed over blue eyes to his.

"Dr…Dr. Watson…"

"No, Sherlock, it's John your friend; remember?" John called. The detective frowned at him, glancing around the room. John did the same and then whispered to him, "This is the hospital; not the asylum. You were hurt." Sherlock was still tense as he sat bolt upright now, trying to pull away from the two men. John's heart pounded in his chest. He had to calm Sherlock down, but how?

"I'm not falling for it! Not ever!" Sherlock screamed, winding a punch into Lestrade's jaw and sending him flying into the bedside table. Lestrade held his head in his hands, blinking away the fuzziness in his head from the smack. Sherlock pinned himself against the headrest of the bed now, eyes blazing with fiery hatred.

"Sherlock!" Sherlock's eyes flew to John's. He lifted his hands up to hit John, but John was faster. John grabbed Sherlock's wrists, careful with the one that was bandaged and held in a cast. He then pulled the startled detective into an embrace and whispered the same words he had said to Sherlock back at the asylum roof over and over again. "I believe in you." Sherlock's body un-tensed and his eyes scanned John tiredly.

"John," Sherlock said in realization. John nodded, brushing the sweaty curls from his friend's eyes as he turned to look at Lestrade as he pulled himself of the floor. "Lestrade," Sherlock added, still registering his surroundings. John watched as the detective slowly fell forward and grabbed at him before his head could hit anything. John held him for a moment as his breath evened out and he was once again asleep. Lestrade assisted John in tucking Sherlock back into his bed and then they both just stared at him. Lestrade shook his head.

"My God," gasped a voice from behind. Lestrade and John both turned around to see for once the startled face of the British Government himself.

* * *

**Hey guys! I'm going to be leaving for SanDiego Comic Con next weak so you won't get your usual update on Thursday since I'll be gone. I will have enough time to post the next chapter on Monday, though so you guys have something to read for that week and don't have to wait two weeks just to see what happened. Sound Good? **


	18. Chapter 18

**As promised here is your early chapter. I'll talk to you guys when I'm back from California. Enjoy your chapter!**

* * *

_Chapter18_

"It wasn't his fault," Lestrade tried to reason, holding his head as he turned to the elder Holmes. "The hospital just made him think he was still…_there_." Mycroft didn't say anything. Instead he just stared at his little brother. John watched him. He waited for the mask to slip off his face and for big brother that cared for his younger brother to jump out. This didn't happen. Mycroft just stared at Sherlock now like he was nothing but a speck of dust. This made john's blood boil, but he kept his mouth shut. Instead he let Lestrade do the talking. "Did any of the doctors make it?" Lestrade asked. Mycroft peeled his eyes off his little brother for a second and he stare down at Lestrade like he was nothing but a peasant.

"No, your team shot first and asked questions later," he stated simply before allowing his eyes to slip back to Sherlock as he lay there on the white bed looking so still and so pale anyone would have said he was dead if it wasn't for the beeping of the machine.

"Well, like you don't do that," John spat, taking his seat in a chair next to Sherlock's bed, where Sherlock would see him when he woke up again. Mycroft frowned at John and straightened up taller like it would make John more afraid. He wasn't.

"Dr. Watson, we will need you and Sherlock to tell us what happened." Mycroft stated suddenly, twirling his umbrella. John scoffed at this, shaking his head and glaring at the elder Holmes.

"Do you not see what state your brother is in Mycroft?" John hissed, poison in his voice. "He lost enough blood to kill two men and all you can think is this damn case…" John trailed off as Sherlock flinched at the rise of John's voice. John went silent, watching as Sherlock calmed and fell deep back into sleep. With a sigh John whispered,

"Listen, I'll tell you everything…just…" John shook his head. "Never mind." John turned his chair so he was now facing both Lestrade and Mycroft. He took in a shaky breath before explaining the past ten days he spent with Sherlock in the asylum. He told them everything and by the time he was done he was parched and dying for a cool glass of water.

"If you saw me, Molly, Donavan, and Anderson then why didn't you see Mycroft?" Lestrade asked suddenly. John stared at him. Of all the questions to ask he has to ask why the British Government wasn't there?

"It's simple isn't it?" Mycroft hissed, walking over to the window and staring out into the drizzling streets of London. John and Lestrade both looked at each other with blank expressions and then focused back onto the elder Holmes. "Neither of them trust me," he answered. John did a double take.

"Since when do I trust Donavan and Anderson-"

"You trust them to be honest with you," Mycroft interrupted. "Donavan and Anderson shared their honest opinions about Sherlock to you. They didn't lie so you trust them. Like when you first met Sherlock in the Asylum. You trusted him because your mind was leaking out certain memories of him, steering you in the right direction. I on the other hand have left you in the dark about so much and have done things…horrible things that will never be forgiven." John's mind instantly flashed back to his discussion with Mycroft before Sherlock had…jumped.

"Well, you certainly haven't done anything to change my mind about it," John snapped in defense.

"True," Mycroft sighed, glaring through the window. John stared out with him, watching as a crow sat in a tree not far from the window. John frowned at the crow. Had he seen that crow before? John thought for a moment. Wasn't that the crow Sherlock had been watching through the window of their mental asylum? John shook himself, realizing that Mycroft was now staring at him with slit eyes. "There is one thing I need to ask you, John."

"What?" John spat, growing impatient with the elder Holmes. He had had enough of being questioned today. A smile curled over Mycroft's face and he reached into his pocket, pulling out thick square glasses and placing them on his face.

"Did you really think you could escape us that easily?" John paled as the image of Mycroft evaporated like liquid and Mr. Darcie stood in his place, smiling cruelly. John whirled around, but instead of Lestrade standing behind him Henry was. John snapped his head back to Darcie, who had now pulled out a gun.

"NO!" John screamed, but it was too late. The bullet flew and struck his body in a searing pain.

* * *

**PS: CLIFFY! Mwahahahaha! **


	19. Chapter 19

_Chapter 19_

John blinked slowly, his head felt heavy along with the rest of his body. He tried his best to remember what had happened. He had been in a hospital with Lestrade and Mycroft-

No, that wasn't right. No, it was Darcie; Darcie and Henry with a gun! Everything came swarming back to John in a matter of seconds. He remembered the attack, and the dream of the asylum. He remembered being rescued too, but that was all just another trick created by Darcie. John gritted down on his teeth. This madman was going to wish he had _really_ shot John back in the hospital by the time he was done with him. He and Sherlock were-

John paused, his eyes widening in terror. Where was Sherlock?! John whipped his head around, ignoring the headache pulsing above his temple. He could feel dried blood sticking on the side of his face. His eyes fell on a chair next to him. It was empty, but John could see that someone had been sitting there not too long ago. A thick pool of blood rested on the floor below the chair. John's heart clenched and he could no longer keep silent.

"Sherlock?!" John cried out. "Sherlock, answer me!"

"Sherlock can't come to phone right now," called a voice. John's head shot up and he frowned at the sight of Mr. Darcie and Henry standing in front of him, their weapons of torture sitting on a table right next to them. "Would you like to leave a message?" Darcie taunted. John cussed at the mad doctors and pulled at his restraints fiercely.

"Where is he?" John spat, glaring at the two doctors. They each grinned at him, shaking their fingers in unison.

"All in good time, Dr. Watson," Henry giggled. He strolled merrily toward a table set up with several weapons of torture. He lifted up a scalpel covered in blood. Sherlock's blood. Henry smiled as John's face fell at the sight of the thick crimson dripping from the blade. He set down the blade, glancing all around the torture table. "Yes, here we are!" Henry shouted, lifting up what looked like a pair of pliers. Henry bounced over to the chair John was being held in and shoved the good doctor's pointer finger into the mouth of the pliers. John struggled under the restraints, cursing and swearing at Henry but the mad doctor only smiled wider. With as much force as Henry's thin body could muster he clamped the handle of the pliers. John yelped out in agony as he heard the bones in his own fingers snap and crackle. Henry went for John's middle finger next, but Darcie stopped him.

"Now, Henry, don't forget procedure," Darcie reminded him. Henry nodded, thanking Darcie and then looked into John's pained eyes.

"Who are you?" Henry asked. John frowned at him. He was about to ask what Henry meant, but then it dawned on him. They had asked Sherlock the same question when he had been taken to the torture room. John took a deep breath and spat a wad of spit into Henry's eye. Henry reared back, hissing in disgust.

"My name is Dr. John Watson. I was a Captain in Afghanistan before I was shot in the shoulder. I have a sister named Harry and I met a consulting detective known as Sherlock Holmes at St. Bart's Hospital. We moved into 221B Baker Street together and have been living there, chasing after criminals ever since," John stated within a single breath. A glint of hatred flooded throughout Henry's face then and he slapped his hand against John's face. John shook his head, trying to get the blurred spots out of his eyes. Then his fingers were back in the clamp of the pliers, being squeezed to the point of shattering. John kept his eyes open, fearing that if he closed them for even a second he would fall back into the untrue world he has been stuck in for several days.

"Who are you?" Henry repeated after snapping John's middle and ring finger. John stayed silent, refusing to answer. Henry simply shrugged and forced the clamp down against John's pinky. Cracking echoed and bounced off the walls. John bit down on the inside of his cheek, tasting blood in his mouth. Pain pulsed through John's hand, but John kept strong.

"Where is Sherlock?" John spat. Henry didn't answer. He simply got up on his feet and pulled the dirty scalpel from the table and slashed it against john's cheek lightly. It wasn't hard enough to cut bone like it had to Sherlock's wrist, but it was enough to send a fresh trail of warm blood down his chin. "Where is Sherlock Holmes?!" John repeated. Henry let the scalpel fly against John's cheek again and again; one for each time John mentioned his name. John kept strong, ignoring the pain flashing through him as much as possible. He was never going to let these people win again. He and Sherlock were getting out of here no matter what, but first he needed to know where the consulting detective was.

* * *

"Well, Dr. Watson, what do you say now?" Henry asked after giving John several more slashes. John glared at him and repeated his answer, not even flinching as Henry raised the scalpel over John's face again.

"Enough, Henry!" Darcie ordered, stepping closer to the two of them. Henry's face fell into a pout.

"Oh, but, Mr. Darcie…" he trailed off as Darcie glared at him with a poisonous stare. Henry pulled himself away from John and handed the bloodied scalpel to his boss. Darcie kneeled down to John, smiling almost exactly how Moriarty had before he had put a bullet through his own head.

"I'm very surprised by both you and Mr. Holmes. You both are much stronger than our previous patients," Darcie said, his eyes glittering with a thrill John only saw from people who were excited beyond excitement.

"Well, that's us the Blogger Detectives- Hat man and Robin! We aren't easy to kill." Darcie let out a delighted laugh.

"Oh, Dr. Watson, we don't wish to kill you. You're our patient!" Darcie giggled. John mumbled something under his breath and Darcie's face reddened into a fierce crimson. John expected him to stab him with the scalpel like Henry had, but he simply got back to his feet.

"Henry, I think it's time for Dr. Watson to be reunited with his friend," Darcie said, his voice cold as ice and lacking in all emotion. A wild smile appeared on Henry's face and he took a few steps back, walking over a table with a black blanket on top. John felt his heart squeeze in terror as Henry pulled away the blanket, revealing Sherlock's paled face. A gag was stuffed in his mouth and his wrists and ankles were tied down. Sherlock's eyes were closed and John could still see that his wrist was still untreated and bleeding heavily.

"See," Henry cooed, tapping Sherlock on the cheek. "He's just fine."

"For now," the doctor who had injected a drug into Lestrade and helped torture Sherlock said, walking into the room with several other doctors. Now John was surrounded.

"That was my line!" Henry pouted. The female doctor waved him off and stepped over to Sherlock's side. Her eyes scanned his figure quickly and gently she patted his cheek, calling to him to awaken. John watched as Sherlock's eyes opened. They were a dull grey and bloodshot. Sherlock's eyes rolled over to John and the consulting detective struggled at the sight of his friend, trying to get to John. The woman then grabbed Sherlock's hurt wrist and squeezed it as tight as possible. John flinched as the sound of bones crunching boomed around the room. Sherlock flinched, squeezing his eyes shut from the pain.

"Stop!" John screamed. Darcie held up his hand and the woman let go of Sherlock's wrist. Sherlock gasped at the sudden relief and breathed in deeply to calm himself. "Just stop…" John gasped, he felt so tired, like all his energy had been drained away. Darcie brushed John's hair from his eyes.

"You're right, John. It's late. We can carry on tomorrow," stated Darcie before turning to his doctors. "Come along! We have other patients to treat!" and with that they were all gone. John let out the breath he had been holding in for so long. He let his eyes scan over to Sherlock. His friend was tied down to the table still.

"Sherlock, we'll get out of here, I swear!" John shouted, knowing far well that that would be a miracle itself.

"I am positive," Sherlock answered, sitting up on the table, a smile on his face as the ropes fell from his wrists onto the floor. John frowned at him, but his questions were answered in one word.

"Pickpocket," Sherlock said, holding up the scalpel for John to see.

* * *

**I'm back! Glad you all enjoyed your little cliffy last chapter. I couldn't leave you with anything happy now, could I? Comic Con was absolutely crazy. I didn't get into the Sherlock panel sadly after waiting several hours in line, but I did get to go to the signing and have Gatiss, Moffat, and Sue sign my T-shirt. They were so much fun to speak with. I'd say that the worst part was the lines and how they set them up, but other than that it was soooo much fun!**


	20. Chapter 20

_Chapter 20_

Sherlock swung his legs over the side of the table and jumped to the floor after cutting his bonds with the scalpel he had stolen from the mad doctor. As soon as his feet hit the floor his ankles buckled, sending him off his balance. He grabbed at the edge of the table to steady himself, breathing hard. Blood was once again oozing from his wrist and John could see the splintered bones of Sherlock's fragile wrist shift as he held himself.

"Sherlock?!" John yelped, yanking at his restraints as if he could break through and jump to Sherlock's side. Sherlock shook his head gently and then shoved himself to John, looking rather ill and weary.

"I…I'm…fine," Sherlock choked out, letting his shaky fingers pull at the restraints and unlock John's wrists and ankles. Once John was free he grabbed hold of Sherlock before he could fall and smack his head against the dirty marble floor. The detective groaned in pain for a moment as his cut up wrist brushed against John's shirt. John held Sherlock for a moment, looking over his tortured friend. Burns were scaring every inch of his body like John, along with bruises and cuts galore. Sherlock's face was ghost white from blood loss and his eyes were turning a dull pale blue as well. Chewing at his lip, John let his eyes scan the room in search of something to cover the wound. His eyes fell on an old box of old bandages and Sherlock's blood soaked scarf. Perfect. John set Sherlock against the floor and began wrapping the bandages tightly around his wrist, trying not to injure his friend any more than he had to. Sherlock watched him with unsteady eyes, blinking rapidly to keep himself awake. John could taste the bile in the back of his throat as he tried to wipe some of the blood covering Sherlock's hand off. His hand was stained red from the amount of blood and the wound still kept on leaking the thick crimson. John knew that his friend would never be able to last another day like this. They had to hurry. As soon as the bandages were wrapped firmly around his wrist, John wrapped the scarf around Sherlock like a sling. The detective frowned at the scarf, clearly not happy about how stained it was. They were going to have one hell of a time washing all that blood out. John was finished soon after tying the scarf and Sherlock decided that he could finally sit up. That was a little more difficult than he had expected. John quickly wound his broken fingers in the fabric of Sherlock's coat, holding him up so he wouldn't fall and pushed him upright against the chairs that had been used to torture them for heaven knows how long. Sherlock glanced over John carefully, eyes falling on the broken fingers clutching his coat.

"We need to snap them back into place," Sherlock informed him. Emotion was missing from his voice, but he had a worried sparkle in his blue eyes. John glanced down at the hand Sherlock now held in his hands in a gentle fashion. John nodded his head, looking away from his broken fingers.

"One…two-"

_Snap!_

John held back a cry as he felt his fingers snap back to where they were meant to be. Opening his eyes he glanced down at his hand. They were swollen and bruised, but he should be alright. "Is there anything else?" Sherlock asked, looking John over as if he would find any more injuries. John shook his head in response and slowly pulled himself back to his feet. Sherlock got up with him and the two looked over their surroundings.

"Have a plan?" John asked Sherlock, walking over to a cabinet by the door. Inside he found some medical instruments they could use as weapons. There's no telling what those insane doctors did to their guns. Sherlock took a knife from him and tapped at his chin lightly, looking around their prison.

"Well, you remember the building plans to this place right?" John nodded, remembering looking through the blueprints before they had left for this god forsaken place. "If we can get to the third floor lab we can loosen the gas tanks. Once we escape this place will be a sitting bomb. There still might be a working phone in the laboratory as well," Sherlock said, piecing everything together.

"Brilliant!" John explained, eyes lighting up. "But…what about Darcie and the other doctors?" Sherlock spun his knife between his fingers.

"Like I said before. This place will be a walking bomb once we get to the gas tanks," Sherlock stated coldly, grabbing a box of matches. John stared at the box and then at his old friend.

"Let's get out of here then."


	21. Chapter 21

_Chapter 21_

Sherlock and John bolted down the never ending hallways and up the long steps, fighting their way to freedom. John constantly glanced at Sherlock as they ran. The detective was slower than usual and several times they had to stop because of his dizzy spells. The fact that he was still standing was amazing. The amount of blood he lost should have been enough to send him into a coma and yet here he was.

"Got you!" Boomed a doctor as he jumped out of a corridor. John yanked the already bloodied scalpel from his pocket, slicing it along the man's right eye. The doctor cried out in pain, flopping to the floor while John and Sherlock ran ahead. They both wished that they had something better than medical equipment to use, but they didn't have their guns anymore and searching for them would just be a waste of time. They had to focus on more important things. They had to find the laboratory and fast.

"John, there it is!" Sherlock shouted, pointing at the white doors. They both kicked open the doors, finding themselves in the main laboratory on the third floor of the asylum. The entire left wall was a long window that looked down at what looked like an old cafeteria. Memories of his time with Sherlock bubbled through John's mind. He could just see Sherlock and himself sitting together with Lestrade by the window. "JOHN!" John stared up into his friend's foggy eyes. Sherlock's fingers were clutching into his shoulder and his eyes were wildly wide. John stepped away from his friend, holding his head in his hands.

"Sorry I…I don't know what happened," John stammered, massaging his temple. Sherlock's shoulders slumped slightly, the worry in his face covered by the still cracked masked. Turning away from his friend, Sherlock adventured through the laboratory. His eyes scanned the room, finding the gas tanks sitting together in a corner.

"John, the phone is over there. Call Lestrade and tell him everything," Sherlock shouted, waving his hand at the wall that held a cordless phone. John nodded, grabbing the phone and plucking in Lestrade's number. He watched as Sherlock's quivering fingers twisted the caps of the gas and propane tanks.

"Hello?" Lestrade's voice called as the phone line connected. John let out a shuttered sigh of relief. Just hearing the real Lestrade's actual voice was enough to make him want to cry, but he had a job to do. Happy reunions could wait.

"Lestrade, Its…it's me," John stammered into the phone. There was a sound of a mug shattering to the floor and John held back the urge to laugh.

"John? John is that you?!" Lestrade shouted. John could now hear people shouting on the other end. "Is Sherlock with you?" John's eyes swivled to the detective standing by the tanks. One hand was bracing him against the wall and the other was possissioned over his heart as he appeared to take in deep breaths. John frowned at this, but then remembered Lestrade was still waiting for his answer.

"Yes, we're both together. Listen, Lestrade-"

"Oh, thank god! You two have been missing for weeks! Mycroft's been practically tearing London to pieces for you two! We thought you were both dead-"

"Sherlock!" John gasped as Sherlock suddenly collapsed to the floor a few feet ahead. Idiot! Why hadn't it clicked in his mind before that something was wrong? He was a doctor after all! Had Darcie's tortures really messed with him that much? His heart beat fast as he bolted to his friend's side and pulled Sherlock into his arms. Sherlock's body was cold to the touch and his heart rate was beating faster than it ever should be.

"John? John, what's happening?" Lestrade's voice echoed through the phone. John lifted the phone to his ear, unable to hold back the fear in his voice.

"It…it's Sherlock. He…he lost a lot of blood. I…don't know how…how long he can last," John stammered, lifting the sleeve of Sherlock's coat to find the rags were soaked in crimson. Bile rose in the back of John's throat and he held back to urge to be ill. "Lestrade…" John's quivering voice wavered into the phone. "He's d…dying."

"Ok, John, it's going to be ok. Where are you?" Lestrade asked, shouting at what sounded like Donavan in the background. John took in a deep breath before saying into the phone,

"We're at the –" A buzzing noise echoed on the other end of the phone as it was disconnected.

"Greg? GREG?!" John pleaded into the phone. With a click the phone buzzed back to life, but Lestrade's voice wasn't the one that returned.

"Did you really think you could get away that easily?" Darcie cooed on the other end. John's face fell into a panicked expression. "We're coming to get you Dr. Watson. You and Sherlock…oh wait; he'll be dead by then!" A cackle rang from the other end of the phone and rage bubbled throughout John's body. With a swift movement John tossed the phone into the wall, shattering it into pieces. Tears burned his eyes as John looked down at Sherlock's pale white face.

"Sherlock, Sherlock, please open your eyes," John pleaded, shaking his friend hard and putting as much pressure he could on Sherlock's bleeding out wrist. He couldn't give up yet. They were so close. Finally, Sherlock's eyes opened, a pained expression written tightly across his face.

"…John," Sherlock rasped, lifting his bleeding hand up to John's face. John grabbed at his wrist again, fearing that the movement would cause even more blood loss. Sherlock flinched at his touch and his head lolled to the side. "Lestrade-"

"Is coming," John lied, eyes watering. Sherlock wasn't going to make it at this point. John didn't even bother lie to himself that his best friend would live. He needed a transfusion and pronto, but now any hope of rescue was gone. Lestrade didn't know where they were and Darcie was coming for them. A small smile fell over Sherlock's face before his eyes closed once again. John choked down a sob and pressed his forehead to Sherlock's as he cried. He was going to lose him…again and there was nothing he could do about it.

"Oh, Doctor Watson!" Darcie sang through the other side of the locked door. John's heart jumped and fear enveloped his face. "We're coming to get you!" John's mind flashed back to the beginning of the case when he and Sherlock were looking at the bodies of Darcie's victims. All had been through extreme medical treatments that haven't been used since the dark ages. Their bodies were mangled and demolished by this madman and his doctors. John jumped back into the present and glanced at the gas tanks. This wasn't going to happen this time; not to him and not to Sherlock. Jumping to his feet John loosened the caps to the rest of the tanks and pulled Sherlock over his shoulder, ignoring the pained moan from his friend. John pulled out the matches Sherlock had taken and brushed one against the box. He hoped this worked. If it didn't they'd be dead men.

As soon as it was lit John bolted for the glass windows and the room evaporated into a pit of fire, wrapping itself around the two detectives and tossing them through the glass window down into the cafeteria in a flaming heap.


	22. Chapter 22

_Chapter 22_

Pain; it was all John could feel. Burns scared his body and wrecked his clothes. He couldn't move his leg either. It hurt like mad, but John wasn't worried about that. Sherlock was on his mind. Lifting himself with all his strength, he looked around with blurred vision, seeking out the image of Sherlock Holmes. Fires burned all around him, but not too far away lay Sherlock, covered in shards of glass and unmoving. John cried out to his friend, but there was no movement. John forced himself into a crawl, ignoring the scream of his possibly broken leg.

"Sherlock!" John cried, dropping to the floor next to his friend and rolling him over. Sherlock's skin was burnt and it was practically see-through. "Sher…lock…" John croaked out, brushing his hand against the detectives face. Sherlock's face twitched at the gentle touch and slowly those magnificent blue eyes looked into his.

"John…"Sherlock rasped, trying to pull himself up, but he was too weak. His body collapsed back down again against the floor. Sherlock's eyes dragged up and down John and wrested on his flat mate's broken leg. John's eyes followed and he instantly felt a sweep of nausea hit him at the sight. His bone had punctured through the skin of his lower leg and a pool of blood was now growing under him. Great; they were both going to die of blood loss. "The door," Sherlock gasped, glancing at the door leading from the cafeteria. John looked at Sherlock with sickly eyes.

"We can make it," he rasped, taking Sherlock's hand. Slowly they both sat up, black spots taking over their vision. John held back a cry as he put weight on his foot. Sherlock grabbed him, holding him up with the last bit of strength he had. John glanced over at Sherlock, who simply just smirked at him like old times.

"I do hope you understand you'll still be chasing after criminals with me after this," Sherlock teased. John laughed, smiling back at his friend.

"Sure, Sherlock, I can knock them out with my crutches," John stated. Sherlock's smile brightened and his eyes turned back to the doorway up ahead.

"They certainly wouldn't see that coming." The two of them struggled to the door, assisting each other as much they could. Flames cracked and popped around them, but they kept on moving. They were going to make it. They had to.

* * *

Cool air licked at their faces as they stepped through the door. It was dark out and the moon and fire were the only things that lit the night. John and Sherlock cried out in triumph as they made their way far away down the cobblestone path. The road was only a few steps ahead. They were almost home free.

"Going somewhere?" cackled a voice from behind. Sherlock and John spun around, to see the blurry image of Mr. Darcie. His skin was shredded from the fire and his clothes were burnt black. Sherlock and John stumbled on their feet as they stared at the man who should have been dead. Darcie smiled at their surprise. "I figured that you two went to that particular lab for a reason instead of just escaping through the main doors," Darcie sighed, glancing behind the detectives. His eyes glistened red from the flames growing behind them. "You killed all my doctors."

"They were no doctors!" John shouted; his raspy voice cracking. Darcie's eyes slit and he stared John down with a poisonous glare.

"HA! Like you and doctors of today are actual doctors!" Darcie spat. "You all rely on machines and gadgets. Do you even know how to treat a patient without such things?!" His eyes turned on Sherlock, looking at the blood soaked bandages around his wrist. A smile quirked at the edges of his lips. "Apparently not," he mused. Sherlock took a step forward, gritting his teeth. John held out a hand to steady his friend, but Sherlock pulled away.

"What about you, Mr. Darcie?" Sherlock hissed, his icy blue eyes blazing with the light of the fire erupting from the asylum not too far away now as well. Darcie frowned at him, folding his hands over his chest.

"I don't know what you mean," he growled. Sherlock smiled at him with angry eyes and waved at the Asylum behind Darcie.

"Doctors are supposed to adapt; to change and learn new techniques for the best of their patients, but here you are with old techniques that barely gave their victims a chance. Are you really a doctor like you're saying because you don't seem to be putting the patient first?" Sherlock huffed. "You're no Doctor." Darcie was rigged all over, breathing heavy as anger burned through him like a laser.

"Those shall be your last words, Holmes!" he screamed, whipping out a gun and firing. John and Sherlock lunged themselves to the ground, but the bullet still had enough time to scrape Sherlock's temple. The detective let out a cry, sending fear through his flat mate. John grabbed at Sherlock only to see that the bullet had scratched him. Thank god! Darcie wasn't finished, though. He charged at them, knocking Sherlock onto his back and squeezing his wounded wrist. Sherlock kicked and punched at Darcie, but he was too weak from blood loss. He couldn't push him off on his own. Pulling out the scalpel John had taken from the torture room he lunged himself on top of Darcie, stabbing it into the man's back. Darcie cried out, rolling off of Sherlock. John held onto the man, doing his best to dodge the kicks Darcie hit him with. Once again he stabbed down, but this time Darcie caught his wrist and kicked him in his broken leg. John cried out, smacking down against a tree sitting just next to the path they tumbled on. Darcie picked up the scalpel from the ground, coming toward John with angry eyes.

"John!" Sherlock shouted, jumping in front of his friend and grabbing Darcie's arm. Darcie screamed as a snapping noise came from his arm when Sherlock bent into backward. The detective may be week, but he still had some fight left in him. John rushed to Sherlock's aid on his broken leg, helping his friend bring down the doctor. Sherlock now had out his own scalpel and was stabbing down at Darcie as he tried grabbing for Sherlock's wrist again. John took back his own scalpel and slashed at Darcie as well. With a sharp cry Darcie collapsed on the ground, motionless, leaving Sherlock and John alone. The two looked at each other, breathing hard.

"Huh, who said you can't put up a fight when slowly bleeding to death," John sighed, leaning up against the tree. Sherlock wiped the sweat from his face, staring down at Darcie.

"Speaking of bleeding to death," Sherlock began, looking up at his friend. "We better try to make it to the main road before death finally catches up with us." John nodded, pulling himself up from the tree.

_Smack!_

John whirled around, startled from the sound. He looked down to see Sherlock laying on the ground and Darcie standing over him with a bloody smile.

"You didn't think it could be that easy did you?" John swore to himself. He was really starting to hate that saying now. He took a few steps back from the man, knowing that he was too weak to put up another fight and make it out alive. Darcie grinned down at John as he lifted a knife above his head. "Not all patients survive treatment, sadly. Everyone dies sooner or later!" John's eyes widened as the knife came down.

_Bang!_

The noise rocketed through the area like a sonic boom and John heard the knife fall to a clatter against the ground. John looked up to see Darcie sputtering up wads of blood as the bullet hole in his lungs worked its magic. John's eyes then fell to Sherlock lying on the ground with the gun sitting limply in his hands.

"Sherlock!" John croaked out, crawling over to his friend. Sherlock smiled at him sickly. His heart rate had skyrocketed, along with how cold he was.

"He overestimated us," Sherlock whispered as John sat by his side. John smiled at him.

"Yeah, well that's the great Hat Man and Robin for you," John sniffled. Sherlock frowned, shaking his head.

"I still don't get what they see in that hat," Sherlock muttered. "I only wore it that one time for god's sake!" John laughed at his friend.

"Well, fans are crazy that way." John could now feel the tears running down his face as he looked at his friend. Sherlock's eyes looked back at John and his hand reached up to John's face, wiping away the tears.

"You need to go…get help for yourself," Sherlock whispered, his voice growing weaker and weaker. John shook his head, bringing his own hand up to touch the hand Sherlock had resting on his cheek.

"I'm not leaving you again, Sherlock. Anyway, I doubt I can make it there myself," John muttered. Sherlock stared at John for the longest time without saying a word. John took in a sharp breath, waiting for Sherlock to suddenly argue, but instead Sherlock said softly,

"Then we stay together then, like always." John smiled at Sherlock, nodded and lowered himself down so he was lying down next to Sherlock. The two stared up at the stars above them. "Stars are lovely tonight," Sherlock sighed, blinking slowly. John smiled up at the stars.

"I thought-"

"Really, John, you should know how this argument turns out," Sherlock interrupted, smiling to himself. John let out a shaky laugh. He felt like everything was moving slower now. They could only have moments left.

"I know, I just enjoy it. Like I've enjoyed every other thing I've been through with you," John stated. Suddenly, he felt Sherlock's ice cold fingers entwine with his own.

"John…" Sherlock stopped as a raspy cough interrupted him. John squeezed Sherlock's hand. The coughing slowly came to an end and Sherlock's head lolled to the side, too much energy had been used up on his coughing fit. "You're my…my best friend…and always will be. You…you know that right?" he gasped, his grip on John's fingers was starting to loosen as death's hand came closer to them both. John forced out the last of his energy and squeezed Sherlock's hand.

"Always, Sherlock." Sherlock's head swayed to the side, his eyes fluttering lightly.

"Farewell, old friend…" Sherlock's voice trailed off as the last of his breath left his lips. John held back a sob and pulled himself closer to Sherlock.

"I'll see you soon…old friend," John cried, closing his eyes and leaning his head against Sherlock's.

* * *

In the full light of the moon lay two detectives on a cobblestone path. Their blood pooled out below them. Death stood off to the side, watching as the two drifted away to a never ending sleep. He had finally caught up with the two of them. You can run from death all you want, but one day you'll trip and fall and he _will_ catch you.

* * *

**So….How many hearts have I shattered in this Chapter? Let's have a raise of hands! **

**Sadly, ****I must inform you that there are only two chapters after this one. *Sob* My baby is almost all grown up! But, you never know what evil scam I could get cooked up in just two chapters. *laughs evilly* **

**Talk to you all next week!**


	23. Chapter 23

_Chapter 23_

"Sherlock!" John cried out, his head swaying back and forth in terror. Lights were being shined in his eyes and people were yelling all around him. Where was he? Was he in heaven? Why was everything so bright? John tried to pull away, but his body ached all over. The pain was unbearable. "Sherlock!" John screamed again, holding his hand out in hope the detective would find it and take hold. A hand took it, but it wasn't Sherlock's. These hands were rougher and covered in a sticky liquid.

"John! John, open your eyes! Please!" the voice of the owner of the hand cried. John did as the voice asked. Maybe it was god or an angel. Bright lights blinded him instantly and John forced his eyes shut in pain. "John!" the voice pleaded again. John forced his eyes open again, forcing back the spots that filled his eyes. He glanced around himself, heart beating fast. People were all around him, dressed in white. Oh god, he was in heaven! He was dead! John tried to sit up, but the angels pushed him down. "You have to stay down!" the voice shouted. John's eyes flew around, searching for the owner of the voice. His eyes fell on a familiar figure sitting by his side, clutching onto his hand for dear life.

"Lestrade?" John gasped, in surprise. "Why are you…how did you die?" Lestrade frowned at him.

"John, you're not dead. We found you…you're safe now," Lestrade stated, brushing back John's hair gently. "We traced your call, I'm so sorry it took so long." Relief flooded through John's body. He was alive. He had made it. His eyes looked over Lestrade. His eyes were underlined with bruises from lack of sleep and his hair was a matted greasy mess. Blood was all over his hands and clothes as well. John's eyes widened suddenly, in realization.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade shushed John, holding his hand tighter. John's heart beat faster in his chest. "Where's Sherlock?" John asked again, terror seeping through his words.

"Just calm down John." Calm down?! Calm down?! Why wasn't he telling John? Was something wrong? Where was Sherlock? Why won't they tell him?!

"Sherlock!" John screamed out, calling for his friend in hope he would answer back. Lestrade tried to hold him down, but John kept struggling. "Sherlock! Sherlock, please answer me you clot!" John cried, tears tracking down his face.

"John! John, calm down! You're going to hurt yourself! JOHN!"

"SHERLOCK!" John cried out, sobbing now. Why wouldn't he answer? John felt his heart beginning to crack as the idea started to form in his head. No, Sherlock can't be dead! He just can't! "SHERLOCK!"

"For god's sake!" a new, but familiar voice shouted. John's eyes spun around, searching for the owner of it. His eyes fell on Mycroft Holmes. Well, at least he thought it was Mycroft. His eyes were red and his clothes were wrinkled and messy with dirt and…blood. Suddenly, John felt a hand slip something cool into his. John's fingers wrapped around the thing in his hand. Fingers…he could feel fingers. He was holding someone's hand. John let his eyes follow to where the hand had come from. Laying on a stretcher right next to him was Sherlock Holmes. His shirt was partially open and a mask was on his face, forcing him oxygen. John let out a sob at the sight of his friend. His living, breathing friend. His grip tightened around Sherlock's fingers and he didn't hold back the tears. He didn't care if Lestrade and Mycroft were watching. He didn't care. All he cared about was that Sherlock was alive. ALIVE!

"Sherlock?" John whispered, rubbing his thumb gently against Sherlock's palm.

"John…" John turned his gaze to Lestrade. Lestrade looked as if he was going to cry. His eyes were glittering with tears. Mycroft just looked tired. It looked as if his entire world had just came crashing down. Lestrade finally cleared his throat and stared over to where Sherlock now slept. "He…he lost a lot of blood, John. When we found you two he was…well…he was already…gone." John's heart tightened. Where was Lestrade going with this? Why was he telling John this? Lestrade cleared his throat and began talking again. "I guess I'm just trying to say…to say…"

"He's not going to be able to make it," Mycroft finished, wanting the discussion to end already. John turned away, looking back to his sleeping friend. A long tube was connected to Sherlock's body and blood was being transfused into his cold form from a small bag. Paramedics were bustling around him, checking his pulse and poking at his body.

"Sherlock…" John pleaded once again. Sherlock didn't say anything. He just lay there, dead to the world. John held back a sob and closed his eyes tight. _"Please...please wake up, Sherlock. Don't leave me," _John prayed to himself, wrapping his fingers tighter around Sherlock's. Lestrade and Mycroft lowered their heads. John sniffled as he cried, praying over and over again. "Come on, Sherlock, I kept my promise," John stuttered. "Don't you dare leave me after all that! I believe in you, you…you…" John stopped as he felt Sherlock's fingers squeeze around his hand. John opened his eyes staring into the pale eyes of Sherlock Holmes.

"I believe the words…you're looking for are _brilliant detective_," Sherlock moaned, weakly. The doctors, Lestrade, and Mycroft shouted in surprise as Sherlock's eyes began to focus and brightened with life.

"I was going to say idiot, but sure…I guess that works too," John teased, brushing at his tears with his free hand. Sherlock smiled at him, licking at his dry lips.

"Looks like we're going to be taking down the criminals of London with crutches after all," Sherlock teased. John broke out laughing and Sherlock joined him. Filling the cool night with their laughter on their long journey to the hospital.

* * *

On a pale crisp night in London an ambulance sped down the road, carrying two detectives. Their eyes beamed with life and their laughter brightened the night. Death stood on the sidewalk, watching as the ambulance passed him by. You can run from death all you want and one day you'll trip and fall and he _will_ catch you, but you always have someone to help you back up and take your hand and run away with you.

* * *

**Glad to hear how much you all enjoyed last weeks chapter. It was probably one of my favorites. I wonder why? Anywho...I hope you enjoy this happy chapter. One more chapter until it's all over. Talk to you all next week!**


	24. Chapter 24

_Chapter 24_

The jewel thief crept down the streets of London, holding his treasured bag of diamonds tight in his grip. He had out run the police once again. They would never catch him; never. He was invincible! He trotted down an alley, cackling to himself on how simple his job had been tonight.

_Smack!_

The thief flew into the brick walls of the alley, gasping in surprise. What had hit him? He opened his blurry eyes to see a short man with his leg braced in a cast. He wore a jumper under his coat and in his hand he held a crutch. So that's what hit him.

"Bad choice, old man!" the thief shouted, attempting to pull himself up.

"Hmmm…actually I think you're the one who made the bad choice. Isn't that right, Sherlock?" the man stated, glancing behind the thief. The thief whirled around to see a man with dark curls and bright blue eyes. He was dressed in a black coat and blue scarf. His wrist was in a cast and hanging in a sling.

"Yes, I believe you're right, John. Threatening the world's only consulting blogger detectives is definitely a bad choice," Sherlock stated, glaring down at the thief. The thief stood strait, a smirk growing across his face. What was he to be afraid of? These two? They were crippled! What could they possibly-

The thief gasped as John's crutch smacked him against the head again and his vision blurred when Sherlock kicked him in the chest, sending him flying into the wall and hitting his head against the bricks. The bag of jewels fell from his hand as he drifted out of consciousness. Sherlock sighed, picking up the bag and tossed it over to John, who caught it simply. "Text Lestrade and tell him where he is. Another case closed," Sherlock groaned, boredom leaking back into him. Jewel thieves were so predictable. John nodded, sending a quick text to Lestrade.

_**Jewel thief in ally at Chestnut Ave. -JW **_

_**You two do realize that you're supposed to be taking it easy right? It's only been a month since the…incident. –GL**_

_**Try telling that to Sherlock. Anyway, the doctors said we needed to exercise to get our busted limbs back in working condition. This counts. –JW**_

_**You sound just like him. –GL**_

_**I'll take that as a compliment –JW**_

John shut his phone and strolled over to Sherlock's side. He glanced up at his friend. His skin was still freckled in scars like John's. Even after a month of being away from the asylum they still haven't heeled physically or mentally. John still had nightmares about the place and he knew Sherlock did too. He had caught the man tossing and turning in his sleep some nights, but Sherlock never would admit to it. Damn him and his bloody pride. Lestrade and Mycroft were the worst, though. They never let the two of them out of their sight and it was really starting to get annoying. Even Mrs. Hudson kept a close eye on them!

"…and so of course the answer would be…John? John, are you listening to me?" Sherlock shouted, snapping his fingers in front of John's face. The good doctor's mind snapped back into the present and he looked up at Sherlock.

"Oh, sorry. I was just…thinking," John stated, running a hand through his hair. Sherlock let out a sigh, quirking up an eyebrow.

"You should leave that to me, John. I am better at it after all," Sherlock teased. John glared up at him, but broke into a smile as Sherlock smirked at him. "So what were you thinking about?" Sherlock asked finally, fiddling with his sling. It had come loose when he had kicked the burglar into the wall.

"The asylum," John stated simply. Sherlock tensed instantly and glanced over at John.

"Why would you be thinking about that?" he asked.

"Well, we were tortured, blown up, and practically bleed to death. You can't tell me you don't think about it sometimes." Sherlock remained silent, staring straight ahead. John chewed down at his lip and stared ahead as well. "Sherlock?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock moaned, still fiddling with the straps of his sling.

"At the asylum…" Sherlock flinched again and John felt sorry for bringing it up for a second time. However he carried on with his question, he needed to get this off his chest. "When I…was shocked I completely lost myself, but when you were shocked…well, you still remembered. How?" Sherlock stopped walking and looked down at his short friend.

"Because of you." John stared at him, frowning in confusion. Sherlock rolled his eyes at him. "Honestly, John, it's like I'm talking to Anderson some times." John felt the corners of his lips quirk up slightly, amused at how flustered Sherlock was acting now. His smile left however, as Sherlock continued with his answer. "When I first woke up at that place I was like you, oblivious to the truth. I just went along with what I was told, but then I started dreaming about Baker Street and everything clicked back together. I remembered you and that's what kept me going." John stared at Sherlock, mouth agape.

"Sher-"

"Mushy moment's done…can we go home now?" Sherlock whined, starting to walk again. John grabbed Sherlock by the good arm and pulled him into a halt. He stared into Sherlock's cool blue eyes, realizing that the consulting detective wasn't lying. He didn't know how he knew he just…did. He could feel it in just one look into those vibrant eyes. He let go of Sherlock's arm and they both stood there like statues for a moment.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"Thank you." Sherlock frowned at him, his eyes flying back and forth like they always did when he was thinking or processing information.

"For what?"

"For believing in me…being my friend…exedra." A smile played at Sherlock's lips.

"Well, someone has to," Sherlock mused, running a hand through his curls, awkwardly. He hated these heart to heart moments. There were always too many emotions in them and emotions meant pain. Sherlock glanced down at John then, taking in a deep breath. Well, maybe he could let his mask slip just this once.

"Thank you, John," Sherlock stated. "For believing me in the end and saving me," Sherlock added before walking again. John stared at him as he walked ahead, coat flapping elegantly around his legs. John felt a moment of triumph for a second. Too bad he didn't get that on tape. It's not every day the great Sherlock Holmes says _thank you_ of all things. "John, hurry up! I still have that experiment in the oven!" Sherlock shouted at him. John paled, the image of a head exploding all over the kitchen passed before his eyes. As quickly as he could manage on his crutches, John followed him and the two gabbed back and forth about cases and experiments on the way home. Everything was back to normal again; just the way they liked it.

* * *

A black crow watched intently as the two stepped into the cab, unknowing of its presence. The bird with ink black wings and beady red eyes let out an ear piercing caw and ruffled its black feathers. Death slowly materialized a ways away like black smoke. He made his way to the bird, bones clicking and rattling as he walked and stood underneath the hideous bird. Death, leaning on his staff as he watched the detectives slip away from his icy grip again tapped his fingers lightly on the blade of his scythe.

_Caw! _

Death looked up at the bird.

"Yes, my pet, I know. Don't fret their time is coming…sooner than what they expect. They can't run forever; not from me.

* * *

**CAW! Mwahahahahahaha! And FIN! Dun, Dun, DUN! I was going to leave it with just Sherlock and John, but then I figured I should put some sort of creepy ending just adding to your wonderful feels. I can't leave you guys with some easy **_**happy**_** ending now can I? Hehe. Where's the fun in that? Thanks to everyone for reading, reviewing, following, and favoriting! I hope you all enjoyed the ride. This is my favorite one I've written so far and I hope it was yours too. If you have requests for anything you would like me to write next just send me a PM. **


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